


Persuasion and Perspicacity

by expoduck



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: "But I'm Straight!", Epic Mansex, First Time, John Being Confused, John's Fooling Nobody, Least Of All Himself, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mildly Dubious Sanity, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:47:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/expoduck/pseuds/expoduck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock sets his sights on sure-he's-straight John. But will their epic unresolved sexual tension ever get epically resolved?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Persuasión y perspicacia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/879992) by [ADalek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADalek/pseuds/ADalek)



"Is that a new jumper, John? It's... nice."  
  
John squares his shoulders and frowns. "Right. What are you doing?"  
  
Sherlock frowns slightly. "What do you mean?"  
  
"Complimenting me. You've done it three times in the last hour. Why?"  
  
"Must I have a reason?" Sherlock sighs, sounding very put-upon.  
  
"Yes," says John, like it's the most obvious question ever asked. "This is _you_ we're talking about."  
  
"Mmm, I see your point," Sherlock muses.  
  
"You know this is a new jumper, because I bought it yesterday and you saw me take it out of the bag when I got home. What's with the compliments?"  
  
"When one person is fond of another person, I understand that it's traditional to demonstrate that fondness in the form of favourable observations about appearance, and a show of interest in that person's life."  
  
"Right..."  
  
"Was I misinformed?"  
  
"No, I mean..."  
  
"Am I making you uncomfortable?"  
  
"No, not... not as such," John says, starting to get confused about his reaction.  
  
"Would you like me to stop?"  
  
"Well, no..."  
  
"It really brings out the colour of your eyes."  
  
"Okay, that was a bit weird."  
  
"It was?"  
  
"Yeah, you sound like you're trying to pick me up."  
  
"That's... reasonable."  
  
"In what way is that reasonable?" John says, a confused smile on his face.  
  
"Because I _am_ trying to pick you up," Sherlock says, deadpan.  
  
"You what?" John laughs nervously.  
  
"I thought I'd made my intentions quite clear."  
  
"No?"  
  
"I'm interested in pursuing a sexual relationship with you. If you're amenable, that is."  
  
"If I'm wha- God, Sherlock, what? Why?"  
  
"I'm attracted to you, you're attracted to me..."  
  
"Wait-no. No I'm not."  
  
"John," Sherlock says, an archly patronising expression on his face, reminiscent for a moment of Mycroft. "Come, now."  
  
"I'm not attracted to you, Sherlock, I'm straight."  
  
"Seriously..." Sherlock murmurs, moving much closer to John than he'd like.  
  
"Straight as an arrow," John murmurs, deftly stepping out of Sherlock's way. "Straight as a... as a very straight thing."  
  
"John," Sherlock says, turning to follow him with his eyes as he moves past.  
  
"No, Sherlock. Just... Just no, okay?"  
  
He can feel Sherlock's gaze burning into his back as he flees the kitchen.  
  
It's much later when the thought occurs to John that he neglected to mention Sarah as one of his reasons against he and Sherlock... well, you know. A perfectly serviceable girlfriend, and he didn't use her as an excu- a reason. That troubles him and he's not entirely sure why.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Two days later Sarah breaks up with John. He's not really surprised, and if he's honest with himself he'd seen it coming a while back. She's been getting more and more distant, quieter, and finally that night at her house she sits him down on the couch and tells him all the reasons it isn't working out.  
  
He's such a nice guy, but she never feels like he's really there with her. He always seems like he's getting ready to run off, which is true, he admits. He's a great friend and she’s attracted to him, but she doesn't see a future with him. She wants marriage and children and she doesn't see John settling down. She sees his future involving running down darkened London streets at all hours, chasing criminals and following Sherlock. A life of danger and intrigue isn't what she wants.  
  
She doesn't see a future with that John Watson.  
  
John returns to 221B Baker Street with a heavy heart and the knowledge that Sarah is right. Annoyingly right.  
  
Speaking of annoyingly right, when he walks into the flat Sherlock's idea of an appropriate greeting is to state bluntly, "She dumped you."  
  
John stops and rubs his forehead tiredly. "Yeah, she did," he mutters, not even bothering to ask him how he knew.  
  
"Saw that coming a mile off," Sherlock declares, sprawled on the sofa dramatically, like a swooning Victorian woman.  
  
"Yeah, I imagine you probably did," John says, frowning at his flatmate.  
  
"She wants to start a family and she thinks it won't work out with you," Sherlock says, a vaguely disgusted tone to his voice, as though the desire to start a family is completely unreasonable and irrational.  
  
That annoys John. "Women, eh?" he says, not even bothering to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.  
  
"Mmm. Can't live with them, can't have heterosexual sex without them . Or so I've read. Not really my area," Sherlock says, arching an eyebrow and adding, "As you know."  
  
"Uh. Yes. Hmm. Well, then. Yes. I'll be... off, then," John stutters out, jerking a thumb toward the door behind him, eager to escape this awkward conversation. "Bedtime. Big day." He adds a yawn-stretch combination for good measure.  
  
He can tell by the look on Sherlock's face that he's not even slightly fooled.  
  
"Want some company?" Sherlock enquires, a small smile full of promise twitching his lips.  
  
"Nope, I'm good," John says quickly, frowning as he backs toward the door, bumping into the door frame in his haste to get away. "G'night."  
  
"Good night, John," Sherlock practically purrs, turning onto his side on the sofa, looking up at him with what John would probably describe as longing, were the expression on any other face.  
  
John flees the room, his heart inexplicably racing as he climbs the stairs.  
  
  
* * * * *  
  
Sherlock doesn't mention it again for a few days. Things have mercifully gone back to the way they were, with Sherlock silently observing John a lot of the time, but making no sexual overtures whatsoever.  
  
John is mostly relieved that whatever experiment Sherlock had attempted to involve him in seems to have run its course. Mostly, but there's a little bit of... regret? Is that the right word?  
  
Sherlock's sudden interest in John had been confusing, certainly, but at the same time it had been highly flattering; that he was seemingly special enough to hold the interest of _that intellect_ , even for a brief moment. To be subject to that kind of intense focus. He finds that he misses that feeling much more than he'd have expected; more than he's comfortable acknowledging.  
  
There's no denying the fact that Sherlock is a remarkable man. He has a kind of cold charisma which intrigues John. Sherlock can be positively charming and, well, _normal_ when he wants to be, but when it no longer suits his purposes to be so, he can turn it off in an instant. For a bloke he's quite attractive, with high cheekbones and a tall, slim body. And those eyes. They're engaging. He can see why Molly is so smitten with him, why practically everyone Sherlock comes into contact with seems to fall under his spell.  
  
But not John Watson.  
  
* * * * *  
  
John returns home after a long, boring day of Locum work at the Practice to find a lanky, self-styled sociopath languishing on the sofa, shirtless. He pushes down the unexplained butterflies in his stomach and pauses just inside the sitting room doorway, looking at Sherlock's back, which is turned toward the door. He tries not to focus on the way his thin pyjama bottoms barely cling to his skinny, pale hips.  
  
"Hey," he says cautiously, frowning slightly at how nervous he sounds.  
  
Sherlock glances back over his shoulder, looking supremely uninterested, and grunts quietly before turning his head back to the wall.  
  
John frowns, his head cocking slightly. "You all right?"  
  
Another sulky grunt.  
  
"All right then," John murmurs. "Good."  
  
He shrugs off his coat, slinging it over his armchair, and goes into the kitchen to make tea. He hears a loud sigh emanate from the sitting room behind him.  
  
"Tea?" He calls over his shoulder.  
  
"Bored," replies Sherlock.  
  
It's John's turn to sigh. A bored Sherlock Holmes is never a good thing.  
  
The next thing John knows, he's pushed up against the kitchen counter, Sherlock's half-naked, warm body pressed against his back. He didn't even hear him come in.  
  
"Sherlock, what the hell?" John hisses, his eyes slipping closed against his will.  
  
"I'm bored," Sherlock murmurs into John's ear. "Have you thought about my proposal?"  
  
"What? No! I mean... no," John stammers, completely caught off guard, Sherlock's breath making his neck break out in gooseflesh.  
  
"That's a yes if ever I heard one," Sherlock murmurs.  
  
John attempts to move away but Sherlock's hands are clamped to the worktop either side of his hips. He's trapped. And, _oh god_ , Sherlock's hard.  
  
"Sherlock, please," John breathes, a little desperately. "Leave off."  
  
"Tell me your heart isn't racing, that adrenaline isn't coursing through your body. Tell me you're not enjoying the feeling of my body pressed against yours," Sherlock murmurs, low in his right ear. "Tell me you don't like this..."  
  
"I don't like it, Sherlock, now stop, damn it!"  
  
"Liar. I know you want me," Sherlock purrs, his breath hot on John’s burning skin, his lips brushing the shell of John's ear.  
  
As suddenly as it had started, Sherlock is gone, leaving John alone in the kitchen, his hands clutching at the countertop, gooseflesh all down his right side and his cock throbbing and hard in his trousers.  
  
Yep. Straight as an arrow.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Mercifully, the next morning a case pops up to distract Sherlock's dangerously unoccupied mind. Five murders occur over the course of that one day and John spends it running with Sherlock across most of the city, kicking in doors and discovering corpses.  
  
The last crime scene is Sherlock's favourite of the five, a fact made obvious by his highly-inappropriate glee upon arriving. He actually claps his hands and spins in a circle upon seeing the body. The killer has made a mistake, a glaring one apparently, so glaring that John and Lestrade are at a loss to understand what it is. Of course.  
  
Sherlock sheds his coat, drapes it lovingly over a chair and crouches to look at the body more closely, his head tilted to the side. He moves to his hands and knees and John is absolutely not staring at his arse in any way, shape or form. He steadfastly refuses to notice the way the expensive material tightens over surprisingly rounded arse cheeks and he definitely doesn't find a tingle starting down low in his abdomen as he looks. Er. _Doesn't_ look. Doesn't.  
  
Sherlock glances back at John, then narrows his eyes slightly before returning his attention to the corpse.  
  
"John, I need you," he murmurs, four simple words sending a little thrill through John's body.  
  
John crouches down on the other side of the body and it's then that he realises why Sherlock took his coat off. The tiny smirk on his (full, kissable) lips tells John all he needs to know. Sherlock saw him (not) looking at his (luscious) arse, in fact, that was his desired reaction. _Bastard_.  
  
Apparently John is easier to manipulate than he'd like to believe.  
  
John moves away again after confirming that the hair in the victim's grasp does not belong to the victim, which he's sure Sherlock didn't need him for, as the hair is ginger and the victim is, well, _not_.  
  
When he points this out, Sherlock smirks and says something about liking to see John on his knees, which makes John blush bright pink, stumble over his own feet and then flee the room, Sherlock's amused gaze and Lestrade's shocked one following him.  
  
The case is solved by the time they leave the crime scene, Sherlock making wild deductive leaps, even wilder hand gestures and generally being brilliant and sexy- err. Being brilliant. Just brilliant.  
  
John is still scowling as they get in the cab, still reeling from Sherlock's out-of-line comment. He's confused by the fact that his reaction has taken the form of a slow coil of firmly-denied desire forming in his gut, rather than the embarrassment or anger he thinks he should feel. Sherlock is texting intently on his phone as though nothing is wrong, checking his email and doubtless performing a hundred and one other tasks which all involve ignoring John. The man is a multitasking god and it's incredibly annoying right at that moment.  
  
The coat is back in place, hugging that long, lithe body- err. Keeping Sherlock warm. Obviously. Nothing more than that. Certainly not removing temptation, acting as a frustrating barrier against John's magnetically-drawn gaze.  
  
John is straight, after all, and certainly not attracted to his (amazing, gorgeous, dazzling) flatmate. He's definitely not considering sliding a little closer to Sherlock on the cab seat so that their thighs will touch. Not even for a second. He's not filled with anticipation, excited by the possibility of contact, thrilled by the knowledge that Sherlock would not pull away.  
  
As he looks out the window of the taxi, trying to distract himself, John tries very hard but he can't stop picturing that arse. Remembering the way the cheeks clenched, tightening the fabric as Sherlock moved on his hands and knees. Imagining peeling down the expensive trousers and exposing those firm cheeks. Imagining biting them, licking them, running his hands over them. Imagining gently parting them and rubbing the head of his coc-  
  
-Ah, they're home. Good. Not a moment too soon.  
  
"I'm knackered, mate," John says as soon as they get inside the flat (and he puts the emphasis on mate, as in friend, as in completely non-sexual platonic companion), "I'm off to bed."  
  
"Bit early, isn't it?" Sherlock murmurs without looking up from his phone.  
  
"Yeah, probably," says John. "'Night."  
  
Sherlock doesn't offer his company this time and John's not sure anymore what his reaction would have been if he had.  
  
* * * * *  
  
John lies in bed for several hours, wide awake, lights off, curled up on his side under the covers. He watches the red LED display of his clock as it changes from 11:56 to 11:57. He listens to the sounds of the building, of the traffic outside, of the city. Everything takes on a muted tone in his room, the world outside his door and window muffled, distant and remote.  
  
Sherlock fell silent downstairs an hour or so ago, the mournful strains of his violin fading to discordant plucking of the strings and finally to nothing. John wonders what Sherlock is doing, whether he's reading a book, using John's laptop, performing bizarre and ethically questionable experiments in the kitchen, or god forbid, sleeping.  
  
John wonders if perhaps Sherlock is thinking about him, after all, he seems to be doing that a lot lately. It then occurs to John to wonder just when he started wondering about Sherlock like this. He frowns as he rolls onto his back, staring up at the darkened ceiling.  
  
He's always found him intriguing, he freely admits, but he'd never laid awake in bed thinking about him until recently. Probably a side effect of Sherlock's startlingly sudden interest in him.  
  
There's movement downstairs, Sherlock's bedroom door opening and closing. John recognises the sound of the dry hinge creaking and the door fitting itself into its frame. Perhaps Sherlock is going to bed after all.  
  
Without meaning to, John wonders if Sherlock is unbuttoning his shirt at that very moment, preparing for bed. Perhaps he's done that already and is slipping out of it, exposing miles of pale skin, throwing the shirt carelessly into a corner. John feels a guilty thrill go through his body at the thought of his flatmate undressing. A part of him is horrified at the interest his cock has started showing in the images in his mind.  
  
Involuntarily (he tells himself), John pictures Sherlock unbuttoning his charcoal slacks and unzipping them, allowing them to fall to the floor, pooling elegantly around his feet. Would he wear boxers or briefs? John hasn't seen any of his underwear in the wash. Perhaps that means his flatmate doesn't wear underwear.  
  
 _Oh god._  
  
Sherlock-in-John's-mind is immediately completely naked, his trousers still pooled around his feet. He steps out of the forgotten trousers, languidly prowling toward his bed. John pictures Sherlock's naked arse. He's not sure how he feels about picturing anything else just at the moment, but the arse he has a head start on, from the crime scene and taxi ride. His imagination is surprisingly detailed, or maybe inspired is the correct word; a long, lithe, toned body with firm, pale arse cheeks which clench slightly as Sherlock walks.  
  
John lets out a soft groan, his face flushing in the darkness as his hand slowly pushes under the covers, down his chest and stomach.  
  
 _I'm not going to masturbate thinking about Sherlock_ , he tells himself as his hand slips under the waistband of his pants. _The timing is coincidental. I just happen to feel like a wank at the same time, that's all. That's all it is. I'm still straight. It's just a wank_.  
  
The moan that escapes his lips as he takes hold of his rock-hard cock is purely coincidental too, of course. Just a physical reaction to pleasure. Nothing to do with the fact that he's imagining Sherlock lying down on his bed and doing the same thing.  
  
John's imaginary Sherlock is not overly well-hung. His cock is similar in size to John's own; adequate but not intimidating. A small part of John's brain is amused by this concession to male vanity, even as he starts slowly jerking himself off.  
  
John imagines Sherlock slowly stroking his cock, his other hand roaming slowly over his torso, up his chest, tweaking a nipple a little more roughly than John would do to himself. He imagines Sherlock jerking his dick more roughly than John does to himself too. Somehow it seems right. The expression on imaginary-Sherlock's face is very right, quietly delighted, the way he looks when he knows something Lestrade doesn't. The way he looks when John exceeds his expectations. The way he looked at John over the body at that crime scene, earlier.  
  
Just thinking about that look sends a shiver through John's body and he starts stroking his cock in earnest.  
  
Abruptly his mental image changes, from Sherlock alone on the bed to the two of them on the bed together. John's teeth are scraping against Sherlock's pale shoulder from behind as they kneel on the bed, Sherlock reaching behind himself to take John's cock in hand. John lets out a quiet growl as he pictures himself pushing Sherlock roughly onto his hands and knees, running one hand over Sherlock's peachy arse cheek and lining up his cock with the other. Pushing... slowly... inside...  
  
"Oh _fuck, Sherlock_ ," John groans as his cock erupts over his hand, his body shuddering violently, hips thrusting out of his control. He hasn’t had a solo orgasm this intense in as long as he can remember and he strokes himself for much longer than he usually would, because it’s just too good to stop; the aftershocks wracking his body, the images in his mind...  
  
John jolts a moment later as he thinks he hears a dull thud in the hall outside his bedroom door. He freezes, hand still on his cock, heart still racing from his orgasm, eyes wide in the darkness as he listens.  
  
After about a minute he has convinced himself it was just the old building settling in the night, or that he was hearing things. His mind is too relaxed and pleasantly sleepy to think about going to investigate. Soon after that he drifts into a comfortable, dreamless, satisfied sleep.  
  
* * * * *  
  
"I have no gag reflex, you know," Sherlock says, conversationally, over breakfast the next morning.  
  
"You- what?" John blurts out, his brow creasing, cup of tea paused and forgotten, halfway to his mouth.  
  
"Mmm. I trained myself out of it. Comes in very handy for swallowing keys, lock picks and the like," Sherlock says, his expression all innocence. "And for other things too, of course..."  
  
The bastard knows very well the images he's putting in John's mind.  
  
Sherlock reaches across the table, snatches John's marmalade-smeared butter knife with nimble fingers and demonstrates his point by tipping his head back and swallowing the knife like a sword. He pushes it deep, then pulls it out several times, showing off his talent provocatively. His lips drag against the blade and handle, puckered slightly in a way which makes John’s mouth go dry as he watches, his mouth gaping, forgetting to breathe. Sherlock slowly pulls the knife out of his mouth, sucking the marmalade from the blade before placing the knife on his own plate with a smug smile.  
  
"That's... impressive," John only just manages to murmur.  
  
"Isn't it?" Sherlock says. "Of course, it's more impressive with a thicker object to swallow..."  
  
John swallows, staring at Sherlock's lips as he speaks.  
  
"Something blunt which really pushes against the opening to the throat..."  
  
John's face is going bright pink, he can feel it, but if he stands up and leaves the table, Sherlock will see the effect his little display has had on his body. From the look on Sherlock's face, he knows exactly what he's doing. John feels like a puppet dancing helplessly for Sherlock's amusement: humiliated, played-with and _so very turned on_. He stubbornly sits at the table, attempting to stare Sherlock down.  
  
"Do you have anything matching that description, which I could use to demonstrate?" Sherlock enquires, his tone all exaggerated politeness.  
  
 _Oh god yeah, I do. I really really do._  
  
"Nope, can't think of anything you could use, right now," John breathes.  
  
"Think, John. I'm sure you'll _come up_ with something," Sherlock smirks across the table, leaning back in his seat, stretching slightly, his thin t-shirt riding up as he lifts his arms and stretches. John's eyes automatically drop to stare at the trail of dark hair on Sherlock's lower abdomen, leading down to his low-slung pyjama bottoms. He forces himself to look away. He hears Sherlock chuckle quietly and clenches his jaw stubbornly.  
  
John's laptop is on the table and he boots it up and browses the web aimlessly as he finishes his breakfast, pointedly refusing to look at Sherlock again. Sherlock eventually gets bored and wanders off into his strange, little bedroom just off the kitchen, John's gaze following his arse as he walks away. He emerges from his bedroom a few minutes later, minus his t-shirt, with a dark blue towel slung over one shoulder. John glances up at the movement and his eyes stick like glue to Sherlock’s naked torso ( _his sparse, dark chest hair, his toned abdomen, his pale skin, his prominent hip bones_ ) as he moves through the sitting room and out into the hall, up the stairs to the second floor bathroom.  
  
John hears the old pipes creak as the shower starts up and the Sherlock-Getting-Naked show starts up in his head again. He stares out the door into the hall without realising. When he realises what he's doing, he abruptly closes the lid of his laptop and walks decisively out of the sitting room, to the stair well, up the stairs, with the intention of going to his bedroom (at least, that’s what he tells himself). From halfway up the stairs he can see the bathroom door, which Sherlock has left invitingly half-open. He pauses, looking at the door, clutching the handrail.  
  
Steeling himself, he climbs the rest of the stairs and walks straight to his bedroom, steadfastly avoiding looking at the open bathroom door. As he closes his bedroom door, he looks back in the direction of the bathroom. Through the half-open door, John gets a glimpse of a pale, long body with dark hair through the frosted glass of the shower screen. John pauses, staring for much longer than is probably decent before closing his door. More than a glimpse, then.  
  
After thinking for a moment, he turns the key in the lock and leans back against the door, breathing out slowly. He unbuttons his jeans.  
  
 _Sherlock, naked, wet, soapy, slippery and hot. Sherlock, running his long fingers all over his body. Sherlock, taking his cock in his hand and stroking it slowly._  
  
John unzips his fly. This will be his second wank of the day and it's not even gone ten. He almost wishes he had a shift at the practice, just to distract him and get him away from this damnably... inspiring... man.  
  
 _Sherlock, looking up, surprised-but-not-really as John joins him in the shower, already naked. Sherlock, dropping to his knees in the shower recess and putting his lack of a gag reflex to good use._  
  
John pushes his hand into the front of his jeans.  
  
 _John’s hands, gripping Sherlock’s wet hair as he thrusts into his hot mouth. Sherlock’s lips, tight and slippery on his dick._  
  
John groans and pushes his hips forward, fucking into his hand.  
  
 _Sherlock moaning around his mouthful of John, his eyes closed, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks John’s cock hungrily._  
  
John closes his eyes, to better visualise those full lips dragging on his skin, puckering slightly around his cock as he fucks Sherlock’s mouth. John freezes as he hears what sounds like a moan coming from the bathroom. He breathes out unsteadily when a second moan follows the first, silently thanking Mrs Hudson for her thin-walled house, thanking shoddy builders through the ages, thanking the architect of the universe for throwing his life into the path of this impossible madman.  
  
He moves to the wall his bedroom shares with the bathroom and presses his ear against it, listening intently as he resumes stroking his cock, faster than before. All he can hear is laboured breathing and the occasional moan, echoing around the tiled walls and floor in the next room. Sherlock would have to know John could hear him from his bedroom. He’s probably done experiments with decibel meters and calculated the exact volume he’d need to achieve to be heard, or something equally ridiculous.  
  
Somehow, this turns John on even more. Knowing that Sherlock knew he’d be drawn upstairs, knowing that the detective knew he’d listen in. Knowing that Sherlock undoubtedly heard the creak of the third stair from the top, and most likely knows what John’s doing at this very moment.  
  
Knowing that they’re wanking at the same time, thinking of each other.  
  
The next moan John hears is a loud one, and it sounds a lot like Sherlock saying his name.  
  
"Ohh _god_..." John groans, half-turning, his forehead resting against the wall as he strokes his dick harder.  
  
One more choked-off moan (John’s pretty sure Sherlock just came) and John’s coming himself, not even caring as he shoots streams of white on Mrs Hudson’s wallpaper. He leans heavily against the wall, breathing harshly, his eyes squeezed closed as he strokes himself through his orgasm.  
  
He hears the shower turn off and the low creak of the glass shower door opening. His eyes snap open and he looks down at the physical evidence of his and Sherlock's shared wank session, congealing as it trickles slowly down the wall. He grabs an old t-shirt from his washing basket and cleans up the mess guiltily.  
  
He freezes when there's a quiet knock on his door a moment later, squeezing his eyes closed, a frisson of terror going through his body. He can picture what's on the other side of the door: Sherlock with wet hair, beads of water on his pale skin, a slight flush to his chest from his recent orgasm and the heat of the water, a towel slung indecently low on his hips, a predatory gleam in his eye...  
  
He wants to open the door and see Sherlock like that. He wants that version of Sherlock in his room, in his bed, but he just can't make his body move to open the door. He hears quiet footfalls on the stairs a few moments later and curses himself for missing his chance.  
  
John stays in his bedroom for the rest of the day, reading, napping and generally avoiding Sherlock. He knows Sherlock will see right through him the instant their eyes meet, and the thought terrifies him; that Sherlock will know what he’s done, what he feels, what he wants, just by looking at him, and then...  
  
And then what? Make his move? Sneer? Both are equally likely. John doesn’t know which prospect frightens him more. Over the course of the afternoon he’s managed to work his way back to being firmly in denial and has every intention of staying there indefinitely. It’s just a phase. He’s confused. He’s lonely and too attached to the only friend he really has.  
  
He wanks another two times through the course of the day. He wonders if Sherlock has done the same.  
  
When he goes downstairs later to rustle up something for dinner, Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. John isn’t sure whether the sigh he breathes is one of relief or disappointment.  
  
He looks at Sherlock’s bedroom door, thinking for a long moment before pushing it slowly inward. John has never been in Sherlock’s room before and he’s interested to see what it’s like, all of a sudden. At least, he tells himself it's just idle, inexplicable curiosity.  
  
The room is tiny, little more than a largish pantry, really. There is another door directly opposite the one from the kitchen, which looks unused, judging by the waist-high stack of books leaning against it. The room has space enough for a single bed, a bedside table and a narrow flatpack-style wardrobe. Apart from the stack of books, the room is Spartan to say the least. It’s obvious from the state of it that Sherlock spends very little time here.  
  
Prominent on the bedside table is a pump bottle of lubricant. The top drawer of the bedside table is hanging very slightly open and John tells himself that he’s not going to look inside, but he just can’t resist. He pulls gently on the handle and the drawer slides open.  
  
The shallow drawer is empty, save for a clear plastic pouch containing the biggest, blackest, thickest dildo John’s ever seen. John’s eyes widen and he shuts the drawer quickly, his heart pounding in his chest. He freezes guiltily, his eyes closed, listening intently to the silent flat.  
  
After a few long, silent moments, John slowly sides the drawer open again. He stares at the dildo and his first, honest thought is, _I’m half that size. I’ll never measure up_. Then he thinks, _I’m straight, why am I thinking that?_  
  
Then a small voice in the back of his mind (which, incidentally, sounds rather a lot like Sherlock) says, _Liar. I know you want me.  
  
Oh god_ , John thinks, _I really do_.


	2. Chapter 2

"I borrowed your stethoscope. I hope you don't mind," Sherlock murmurs over breakfast a couple of mornings later in a tone which clearly implies that he doesn't care if John minds or not.  
  
John looks up briefly from The Guardian and shrugs, "Sure, knock yourself out." He returns his attention to his paper, blindly reaching for some toast from his plate.  
  
John's toast is halfway to his mouth when Sherlock murmurs, "I've been using it to listen to you at night."  
  
John's eyes flick to Sherlock's face and the expression which greets him there makes his face flush hot, his jumper prickling his neck. Sherlock isn't just undressing him with his eyes, he's X-raying him. Cold dread settles in John’s stomach. _Here it comes. The ridicule. Deny everything_.  
  
He looks back at his newspaper but doesn't really see it.  
  
"Just after you go to bed, and just before you go to sleep..." Sherlock continues, conversationally. "It's surprising how much one can hear through the walls, even in a building as old as this one..."  
  
John stares at the paper, his facial expression unchanged, his toast-hand frozen. His heart is a dead weight in his chest. He's certain it's stopped. He can't seem to breathe either. Complete cardio-pulmonary failure, such a shame in a man only his age. The urge to run is almost overwhelming, but he can’t move a muscle.  
  
Sherlock leans in closer, over the suddenly-too-narrow table and murmurs, "I know whose name you gasp when your orgasm takes you..."  
  
John's hand lets go of the toast, seemingly of its own free will, and curls into a loose fist. His heart is pounding: fight or flight.  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about," John says, his voice flat as he pushes back from the table and stands. " _You_ don't know what you're talking about."  
  
"On the contrary..." Sherlock starts, but he never gets to finish his sentence, as John is already out the door.  
  
* * * * *  
  
John avoids Sherlock as much as he can for the next few days, and he can’t help but think that Sherlock’s making that easier than it would otherwise have been. Sherlock spends a lot of time away from the flat, and when the two of them are in the flat together, Sherlock retreats to his room for most of that time.  
  
 _Good_ , thinks John. _Maybe the awkward git has finally got the message that he’s been doing the wrong thing_.  
  
John doesn’t dare masturbate, doesn’t even dare think about it. He’s convinced that Sherlock could be listening to him at any moment and doesn’t want to give him any further ammunition.  
  
They exchange the barest pleasantries at their rare coincidental mealtimes, Sherlock’s behaviour utterly cordial, formal even. John just goes with the flow, because that’s always been where his strength lies - in compromise and denial, in making-do.  
  
It’s when John notices that Sherlock’s started avoiding even looking at him that he starts to worry.  
  
Over breakfast one morning, before an afternoon shift at the Practice, is when the tension comes to a head. Sherlock doesn't even sit with John at breakfast anymore, not that he usually ate anything anyway, but it was a routine John had come to really enjoy.  
  
Sherlock is reclined on the sofa, staring intently at his mobile, completely ignoring John's presence.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
"Mmm," Sherlock hums, not looking up from his mobile.  
  
"I think we need to talk."  
  
"I was under the impression that talking was the last thing we needed."  
  
"What do you mean?" John says, frowning as Sherlock still stares at his phone.  
  
"A conversation was what started all this. I’ve been trying to avoid an escalation in tensions by avoiding talking to you unnecessarily."  
  
John frowns deeply. "You think that’s what I want?"  
  
Sherlock finally looks up, meeting John’s eyes. He stands and moves over to the table, settling into the chair opposite John. His voice is a low rumble when he speaks again.  
  
"No, I know what you want, but you seem intent on denying yourself."  
  
"Don’t start that again," John says, sitting back in his seat, his arms crossed over his chest.  
  
"I’m not starting anything," Sherlock says, frowning at John's defensive posture. John realises what he's doing and shifts in his seat, uncrossing his arms.  
  
"I just want things to go back to the way they were," John says, frowning. "Before all this. Well. Things were good. We got along great, everything was comfortable."  
  
"For you," Sherlock mutters.  
  
"Say again?"  
  
"You may be comfortable in denial, John, but I’m not."  
  
"I’m not in denial."  
  
"I want to crawl under the table and suck you off, and what’s more, you want me to."  
  
John’s mouth drops open, his face immediately flushing red. There is a brief but telling moment of hesitation before his response.  
  
"I do not."  
  
"Lie to yourself all you want, but you can’t lie to me. I can see through you. I can see _into_ you," Sherlock breathes urgently, leaning forward across the table. "I want to be inside you."  
  
John’s only response to that is a choked gasp.  
  
"I’m not going to stop wanting this, John, so you’re going to need to get used to it," Sherlock continues. "Every time I look at you, I’ll be thinking about all the things I want to do _to_ you, _with_ you and _for_ you. It will always be there. I think it’s important that you know that."  
  
"Sherlock, please-"  
  
"This isn’t going away! Don’t you think I’ve tried to make it? Do you honestly think this desire is convenient for me?"  
  
"Sorry to be a pain," John mutters sarcastically.  
  
Sherlock pushes back from the table decisively.  
  
"Tell me to drop it and I will. I won’t mention it again. Tell me to stop and I’ll stop, but I don’t think that’s what you want."  
  
"I’m not going to tell you what you can and can’t say."  
  
"I thought as much."  
  
Sherlock walks around the table and leans down, cupping John’s cheek in his hand. John swallows and goes very still as Sherlock stares at his lips.  
  
Sherlock’s voice is low and rough as he murmurs, "Tell me you don’t feel it, John. Tell me you don't want it."  
  
John feels like a small, panicked woodland creature caught in headlights as Sherlock looks back into his eyes.  
  
"I... I don’t..." John stammers. "I don’t... know."  
  
"No or know?" Sherlock murmurs, his head tilting slightly to one side, "Be clear."  
  
John swallows, staring at Sherlock’s mouth.  
  
"Kay enn ohh double-you," John breathes, his throat feeling dry.  
  
Sherlock searches John’s eyes, his thumb stroking the doctor’s cheek.  
  
"It’s a start," he murmurs, his mouth moving very slightly closer to John’s.  
  
John swallows again, holding his breath, still staring at Sherlock’s lips.  
  
"Do you want me to kiss you, John?" Sherlock says, his voice low and soft.  
  
"I don’t know," John whispers, his heart pounding in his throat.  
  
Sherlock moves closer still, his lips only fractions of an inch away from John’s. John unconsciously parts his lips, breathing out gently through his mouth.  
  
Sherlock smiles a little and then he’s off to his bedroom in a swirl of blue silk dressing gown, leaving John clutching at the edge of the table, his heart pounding rapidly.  
  
 _Bastard_.  
  
John races up the stairs to his bedroom, closes and locks his door and leans against it heavily, panting more than he should be from his brief exertion.  
  
He sheds his pyjamas as he walks over to the bed, thinking _Sherlock Holmes will be the death of me_.  
  
* * * * *  
  
 **I need you.  
Call me.  
SH**  
  
"What? I thought you didn't like talking on the phone," John says by way of greeting when Sherlock answers.  
  
He’s only been at the clinic for two hours. He’s still confused over their breakfast conversation that morning and even more confused about his epic pre-work wank session, so he’s less inclined to tolerate Sherlock calling him home to make a cup of tea, (or pass him his phone, or find his skull, or help catch tarantulas he’s let loose in the flat [like last month – John’s still not forgiven him for that one]), than he would otherwise be.  
  
His face creases into an expression of concern when Sherlock's only answer is a long, shaky exhale. _What trouble has he gotten himself into this time?_  
  
"Sherlock? You alright?"  
  
Another shaky breath.  
  
"Sherlock?" John repeats, worrying now, already halfway to the door, his coat in his other hand.  
  
" _John_..." Sherlock breathes.  
  
John stops dead in his tracks, his breath suddenly caught in his chest. Sherlock doesn't sound like he's dying, or in trouble, or in danger at all. He sounds... well, he sounds like he's enjoying himself rather a lot... Or what John imagines he'd sound like in such a situation, and he _has_ imagined it. At length.  
  
"Sherlock, where are you?"  
  
"In your bed."  
  
"You- _what?_ " John splutters.  
  
Sherlock goes quiet, refusing to repeat himself.  
  
"What're you doing in my bed?" John asks, knowing he'll regret his question. "Experiment?"  
  
"Something like... _ohh_... like that..."  
  
John swallows. "Are you wanking in my bed?"  
  
Sherlock's reply is a breathy, "Not technically..."  
  
"What does that mean?"  
  
"Use your imagination, John."  
  
 _Believe me, I am_ , John thinks.  
  
"You're picturing it, aren't you? All the obscene, wicked, deviant things I could be doing to myself right now..."  
  
John swallows and stays silent. _Mind-reading bastard_.  
  
"All the obscene, wicked, deviant things you could do to me, if only you were here..." Sherlock says, his voice almost wistful.  
  
John frowns and mentions something which has been troubling him since this whole thing started. "I thought you were 'married to your work'."  
  
"I'm between cases."  
  
"So you're bored and this is a distraction, then? I'm a distraction?"  
  
"Is that bad?" Sherlock says, his voice suddenly lower, deeper. "Am I... _bad?_ "  
  
John feels his heart thud in his chest, his hand clutching the phone slightly tighter. He is quiet for a few long moments before he finally speaks, his voice coming out a little more gravelly than he expected.  
  
"Yes," he says carefully. "You're very bad."  
  
Sherlock gasps, a soft, surprised sound, then groans, "You have no idea, John."  
  
John swallows thickly, then throws caution to the wind and murmurs, "Tell me."  
  
A rich, low chuckle on the other end of the phone line. "I've borrowed something else of yours. Something... private."  
  
"You have?"  
  
"Yes, I have."  
  
"Other than the stethoscope?"  
  
John’s still not sure why he hasn’t asked Sherlock to return that.  
  
"Other than that."  
  
"What is it, then?"  
  
"Guess..."  
  
"Sherlock..." John murmurs, warning.  
  
Sherlock smiles, a wicked, delighted little smile and John can hear it over the miles between them, he can almost see it.  
  
"Guess," he breathes.  
  
"I don't know," John says. "I'm not guessing."  
  
"You're no fun at all," Sherlock murmurs, his amused tone of voice suggesting the opposite.  
  
"You're not the first person to tell me that."  
  
"I'll give you a clue, shall I?" Sherlock practically singsongs down the line, clearly enjoying his game. "I'd only ever seen them on the internet... I could scarcely believe my luck when I crawled into your bed after you'd left and found it under your pillows..."  
  
John pauses for a moment, suddenly struck by the mental image of Sherlock, long, lean, pale and naked as the day he was born, crawling across his bed on all fours, sliding between his sheets. His higher mental faculties seem to desert him for a few long moments, then his brain clicks back into action.  
  
"My... you _'borrowed'_ my _fleshlight?!_ " John hisses, flicking his eyes to the closed door, not really believing what he's saying even as he says it.  
  
Sherlock smirks audibly and says, "Not long after you'd used it, apparently. It was still warm. You know, you really should wash it out after you've finished with it..."  
  
"Oh god," John murmurs, feeling a sharp spike of ashamed lust course through him.  
  
"Still, it saved on lubricant..."  
  
John bites back a groan, his eyes closing, his brow slightly creased.  
  
"It was quite a big load this morning, wasn't it, John? Been a while, has it?"  
  
"You'd know," John murmurs. "You've got the stethoscope."  
  
"True," Sherlock says. "I've had no auditory... inspiration for what feels like an eternity. I liked coming every night, with your orgasm ringing in my ears..."  
  
"Oh my god, Sherlock," John whispers, "What are you doing to me?"  
  
"Making you hard..." Sherlock drawls.  
  
John clears his throat quietly and doesn't confirm or deny the raging hard-on he's currently sporting.  
  
"I know you're hard. I can hear it in your breathing rate," Sherlock smirks down the phone line.  
  
John knows he can't possibly hear his hard-on, or at least he thinks he knows, but he does know for sure that if he challenges him, the detective will hear it in his voice. So he says nothing.  
  
Sherlock chuckles quietly again and murmurs, "I don't need you to speak to confirm it... But I'd like to hear your voice."  
  
"Would you?"  
  
Sherlock breathes out shakily and murmurs, "Oh yes..."  
  
"What do you want me to say?" John asks slightly awkwardly, walking over to the window, draping his coat over the back of his chair.  
  
"Anything..." Sherlock murmurs. "Everything."  
  
"Maybe I want to hear you."  
  
A low groan. "That works too..."  
  
"Easily pleased, aren't you?" John murmurs.  
  
"Not generally, no..."  
  
"Tell me what you're doing, Sherlock."  
  
"I'm using your fleshlight again. It's a wonderful little contraption, isn't it?" Sherlock murmurs, clearly fascinated with John's sex toy. "The vacuum effect is really something else..."  
  
John closes his eyes and swallows. "Have you... erm. Have you washed it?"  
  
"Since I came in it earlier, you mean?"  
  
John only just holds in a moan and his voice cracks as he speaks, "Yes. Since then."  
  
"So, to clarify, you're asking if I'm fucking your fleshlight, my erection coated in semen, both mine and yours?"  
  
John swallows thickly as his stomach drops. "Um, yes?"  
  
Sherlock chuckles softly and murmurs, "You should see me now, John. Covered in our seed, sweaty, debauched and decadent..."  
  
John breathes out heavily into the phone, his breath answered by a moan from Sherlock.  
  
"...spreadeagled in the middle of your bed... thrusting my hips, fucking up into the fleshlight..."  
  
John glances at his office door and rubs the heel of his free hand against the bulge in his trousers.  
  
"Why aren't you here, John? Oh, the fun we could have..."  
  
"You don't think it'd make things... weird?"  
  
"I think it would make things _amazing_ ," Sherlock breathes, "and we've always been weird..."  
  
"Speak for yourself," John murmurs, smiling and shaking his head slightly.  
  
Sherlock makes a small, frustrated noise. "I've changed my mind - you shouldn't talk. Just listen..."  
  
John is just about to make a snappy reply when Sherlock lets out a loud moan. John swallows thickly.  
  
"What are you doing, Sherlock?"  
  
"Still... ahh... fucking the fleshlight... I've tightened the end, so there's more suction. It feels... like I'm going to pull my cock off..."  
  
John groans softly, rubbing the heel of his hand harder against his erection.  
  
"I wish you were here..."  
  
"Watching you..." murmurs John.  
  
"God, yes..."  
  
"You like being observed, don't you?"  
  
"By you..."  
  
"You like the way I watch you."  
  
"You've never watched me like this..."  
  
"I've imagined it enough times," John murmurs, surprising even himself with his frankness.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah. Gets me hard like nothing else..." John admits, feeling his face flush hot.  
  
"If you were here, would you just watch me, or would you want to fuck me?"  
  
"Christ, Sherlock... Would you even... want that?"  
  
"I'm not some blushing virgin, John. The fact that I don't generally indulge in sex doesn't mean I haven't."  
  
"You mean..."  
  
"Yes, my sexual preference is the male of the species, and my general predilection, when active, is toward the bottom. Is that a problem?"  
  
"No," John chokes out. "No problem."  
  
"Although the idea of fucking you is quite intriguing..."  
  
John breathes out very slowly into the phone.  
  
"Too soon. Understood," Sherlock murmurs.  
  
"It's not that. It's just-"  
  
"Fuck me, John. I want you inside me..." Sherlock groans out, and John can hear his exertion in his voice.  
  
"Oh god..."  
  
"Just Sherlock is fine..."  
  
John smiles, shaking his head, wondering if that brain ever turns off.  
  
"Talk to me, John."  
  
John's eyes are squeezed closed and his voice is low and harsh as he breathes into the phone, "I'm so hard for you, Sherlock. _So_ hard. I want you so badly..."  
  
"Oh John..."  
  
"Wanna make you come..."  
  
"Ohh..."  
  
"Want you to come with my cock inside you... Do you want my big, hard cock, Sherlock?" John is shocked at the words coming out of his mouth.  
  
Sherlock sounds just as surprised when he breathes, " _John_... yes..."  
  
"I want to hold you down and fuck you hard... Fuck that hot arse of yours..."  
  
"Oh _god_."  
  
"God, I want you... I want to make you fall apart... I want to make you come..."  
  
"Oh _god, John_..."  
  
"I want you to come for me, Sherlock..."  
  
"So close..."  
  
"Come on, come for me..."  
  
Sherlock lets out a long, low groan into the phone and John finds himself holding his breath as he listens. His friend gasps his name over and over again as he comes and John closes his eyes, biting his bottom lip, savouring every shuddering moan.  
  
There are a few moments of silence, broken only by slowing breaths. John waits. Finally he hears his friend's lazy, sated voice.  
  
"That was... most satisfactory."  
  
"Sounded it," John murmurs, smiling a little.  
  
The phone goes dead and John sighs quietly, shaking his head, smiling a little more.  
  
* * * * *  
  
John arrives home from work, his tummy doing a strange churning thing as he takes the stairs two at a time. He walks into the sitting room to find Sherlock hunched over his laptop, typing furiously. He doesn't look up as he greets John.  
  
"Evening."  
  
"Evening," John says, his heart hammering in his chest.  
  
John stands awkwardly in the doorway for a few moments more, being ignored, before walking into the kitchen with the intention of making tea.  
  
"We're out of milk," Sherlock says, frowning at the laptop. "Well, I say _out_..."  
  
John closes his eyes, leaning with one hand against the fridge door, rubbing his forehead with the other. "What did you do to it?"  
  
"Unimportant. Not fit for human consumption anymore, though."  
  
"Right," John sighs, exasperated.  
  
"Get some bleach while you're out. I need more."  
  
John turns and glares at Sherlock. This isn't how he'd seen tonight going.  
  
"Anything else?" John grits out.  
  
"Better get yourself something for dinner. I'm too busy to go out."  
  
"Right. Of course."  
  
Sherlock pauses momentarily, looking up at John.  
  
"Problem?" he asks, sounding at best half-interested.  
  
"Nope. No problem," John lies. "No problem at all."  
  
Apparently satisfied, Sherlock returns his attention to the laptop, his fingertips flying over the keys, quietly clacking.  
  
"Sherlock-"  
  
"Working."  
  
John frowns more deeply. "Right."  
  
He leaves for the supermarket without another word.  
  
* * * * *  
  
When John arrives home from the supermarket an hour later, he ignores Sherlock. He's still hunched over his laptop and doesn't seem to have moved an inch in the hour John's been gone.  
  
John moves into the kitchen, putting the groceries away, not looking at Sherlock, not speaking to him, not acknowledging his presence in any way. He hears an extended break in Sherlock's typing and knows he's being watched, but he doesn't acknowledge that either.  
  
There's about a minute of silence, broken only by the occasional bang of John depositing the shopping in any non-contaminated, available cupboards he can find.  
  
"You're angry with me," Sherlock observes.  
  
"Damn right I am," John mutters, shoving a packet of rice into a cupboard.  
  
"You weren't angry with me earlier today."  
  
"Well spotted. I am now."  
  
"I don't see why," Sherlock states, and as John looks at him, he can see that it's the truth.  
  
It just makes John angrier. He walks into the sitting room.  
  
"You can't just act like nothing happened. That's not how this works," John says, his hands on his hips.  
  
"But nothing _has_ happened."  
  
John shakes his head quickly. "Not true."  
  
"I haven’t laid a hand on you," Sherlock says, and his voice is so damned reasonable that John has a not-entirely-irrational urge to punch him as hard as he can.  
  
"That's not the issue and you know it," John snaps, instead of punching him.  
  
"What is the issue, then? I don't see it."  
  
"The issue is... is... I told you this would make things weird. I fucking told you. But, ohh no, I'm the Great Sherlock Holmes, I know everything!"  
  
"No you didn't, you asked if I thought having sex together would make things weird. We haven't had sex," Sherlock points out. "And I do know everything," he adds, in an ill-advised attempt at humour. He waits for a smile to appear on his friend's face and it's only when it doesn't that he knows he's really in trouble.  
  
John stares at him, utterly infuriated, for a moment longer before turning on his heel and heading for the sitting room door.  
  
"Where are you going?" Sherlock calls after him.  
  
"Bed."  
  
The door's slam serves as punctuation.  
  
* * * * *  
  
His covers are thrown back, the bottom sheet all creased. John stares at the bed for a few long moments before walking into his room and closing the door. He locks it almost automatically.  
  
He crosses the room, still frowning, still angry, but curious. His pillow has a few stray dark hairs on it. The sheet is creased most in the middle, where Sherlock must have been lying.  
  
‘ _...spreadeagled on the bed, thrusting my hips..._ ’  
  
God, John can almost see it as he stares at the bed. His cock is hard, despite or perhaps because of his anger. He strips quickly, efficiently, dropping his clothes on the floor, then crawls onto the bed. He lies down on his back in the spot Sherlock occupied nine hours earlier.  
  
John’s bed smells like Sherlock. He turns his head to the side, smelling his pillow, smelling Sherlock’s expensive shampoo, smelling sex, smelling arrogance. Okay, maybe not smelling arrogance, but all of the scents combine, triggering the memory of it.  
  
 _God_ , he’s hard. If he wasn’t so angry with Sherlock, he’d go downstairs, grab him and drag him up to his room. Push him face-down into the bed. Hold him down and fuck him like he said he would. Hard. Make him groan out ‘ _John_ ’ like he did in the shower, on the phone, in John’s head every night. Make Sherlock stop ignoring him.  
  
John closes his eyes and slides one hand blindly up under his spare pillows on the unused side of his bed. His fingers touch the casing of his fleshlight and he swallows, closing his hand around it. He slowly pulls it out from under the pillows, then turns onto his side, looking at it.  
  
Sherlock’s cleaned it. John’s a little disappointed if he’s honest with himself. The fleshlight has the anal sleeve in it; it’s the one John prefers lately, and as he slips his fingertip inside it he smiles a little despite himself. Sherlock has lubricated it, ready for John to use.  
  
As John slowly pulls the tight sheath down over his aching cock, he stares at the penetration and imagines it's Sherlock's tight arse taking his thick shaft. A shudder of furious lust goes through his body as he starts pumping his hand.  
  
 _Sherlock had his dick in this earlier. He used it to come at least twice_. John finds that violation of his personal property unaccountably sexy.  
  
He rolls onto his front, trapping the fleshlight between the mattress and his body, closes his eyes, thrusts his hips and imagines he's fucking Sherlock from behind. Sherlock's making muffled grunting noises into the pillow, and he's _so tight.  
  
There, Sherlock_ , he thinks. _You could have had this if you weren't such a prick_.  
  
Remembering the breathy way Sherlock spoke on the phone. Remembering his whispers and moans. Remembering the way his proper, posh voice said ' _fuck_ ' and ' _cock_ ' and ' _John_ ' and ' _yes_ ' and ' _God_ '.  
  
John shudders, thrusting his hips harder. The bed is creaking, the floor boards will be carrying the noise straight downstairs to Sherlock, and John doesn't care if Sherlock hears him. In fact, he _wants_ Sherlock to know what he's missing out on.  
  
He takes a kind of vindictive delight in getting himself off, imagining fucking Sherlock, imagining giving the man what he wanted so desperately earlier in the day; what he very likely would have had if he didn't think his work was more important.  
  
When John comes, he doesn't say Sherlock's name. He doesn't. He refuses to.  
  
He refuses to admit that he even thinks it.  
  
  
* * * * *  
  
John assumes Sherlock has decided that words are the problem. The next move comes the very next morning, in the form of Sherlock pinning him with an intense stare and backing him silently up against the fridge door. He feels like he's paralysed as Sherlock soundlessly sinks to his knees before him, his eyes still locked on John's.  
  
John breathes out unsteadily as long, pale fingers undo his fly and slowly pull his jeans open.  
  
He's already half-hard and he blushes scarlet as Sherlock's gaze moves to his crotch. He swallows around the lump in his throat, trying to get his voice to work, but before he can say a word, Sherlock has pushed his face into the gap in John's jeans, breathing in deeply. John bites back a moan and his hands clutch at Sherlock's shoulders, mostly because he doesn't know what else to do with them, but partly because he's so conflicted about what is obviously going to happen next. He doesn't know which he wants more: to push Sherlock away or to hold him close, close, closer.  
  
Sherlock pulls back and smirks up at John briefly. One more sharp tug and his boxers and jeans are down around his thighs, his cock fully hard now in the cool kitchen air. Sherlock licks his lips slowly as he looks at it, then his eyes flick up to meet John's.  
  
Wordlessly, breathlessly, helplessly, John nods, just a slight movement of his head. Sherlock smiles, a triumphant, slightly wolfish smile, then moves his head forward, running the cool tip of his nose lightly up the front of John's shaft. John breathes out heavily, his hands tightening slightly on Sherlock's shoulders.  
  
When Sherlock takes John's cock into his mouth, he does it with the same impatient energy with which he does most things: he takes it straight to the back of his throat, sucking hard as he pulls back. He repeats the motion, again and again, and it's too much, too intense, almost painfully so. One of John's hands moves to the back of Sherlock's head, gripping his hair lightly.  
  
Sherlock's response is a low groan and a quick shove forward to take John deep into his mouth again. This time, John's fingers tighten in Sherlock's hair, stopping his movement. Sherlock's lips tighten around John's shaft and he sucks hard, his cheeks hollowing as his head is slowly pulled back.  
  
John's eyes are locked on Sherlock's lips, stretched around the thick shaft of his cock. He has a look of vague disbelief on his face as he starts to thrust into that hot, wet mouth, cautiously, slowly. Sherlock's eyes are open, looking up at him with an expression of naked want. Sherlock lets out a quiet, frustrated grunt and reaches back to take hold of John's hand in his hair, gently prying his fingers away. His other hand moves to dislodge John's hand from his shoulder.  
  
Sherlock keeps hold of both John's hands, pressing them against the fridge door at his sides as he slowly bobs his head, taking John's cock as deep as he can, then pulling back, sucking hard. The rhythm isn't as punishing as it started out, but it's quickly driving John out of his mind.  
  
Sherlock's eyes slip closed and his brow creases slightly as he takes John deeper still. John can hear him trying to suppress his gag reflex and the thrust of his hips is completely instinctive. Sherlock gags around his throat full of cock and John shudders violently in response, holding Sherlock's hands tighter, thrilled that he's defeated the smug bastard's much-boasted mastery over his gag reflex.  
  
Sherlock bobs his head faster, breathing noisily through his nose, making little muffled moaning noises which buzz right through John's body. He's taking John apart, piece by piece, first his certainty about his sexuality, then his restraint and now his control. John thrusts his hips against Sherlock's bobbing head, his breath hitching with each sharp inhalation, fighting hard to suppress the whimpers and moans bubbling up in his chest.  
  
Oh god, Sherlock's going to make him come. He should warn him, shouldn't he? He's afraid to speak in case it breaks the spell, in case words stop Sherlock from performing this magic with his mouth. But just coming in his mouth without warning seems a bit rude...  
  
 _I'm going to come in Sherlock's mouth_ , John thinks as his head falls back against the fridge door. That thought is almost enough to do him in.  
  
He tries to move his hands, tries to warn Sherlock, tries to push him away. Sherlock merely tightens his grip on John's hands, holding them against the door more firmly.  
  
Then Sherlock takes John deep again and _hums around his cock_.  
  
Time stops for John, his body teetering on the edge of orgasm. All that exists for John is his cock and Sherlock's mouth, his helpless need and Sherlock's relentlessness. John's world goes white and then his hips jerk forward, his dick pulsing in Sherlock's mouth, flooding it with his seed. His whole body trembles as Sherlock drags him to his release, his hands clinging to Sherlock's, crying out his name without realising, then whispering it like a prayer as he comes down, his eyes still closed, his head still leaning back against the door.  
  
John feels Sherlock pull back, gasps quietly as the cold kitchen air hits his saliva-slick cock and his hands are released. He cautiously opens his eyes and looks down at Sherlock, who is now sitting back on his haunches. As he watches, Sherlock drags one long, white thumb along his bottom lip, looks at the smear of collected semen closely for a moment before sucking his thumb clean. Then his gaze raises to John's face.  
  
John swallows and starts to speak, but Sherlock holds up a hand to stop him. He moves forward and John gasps quietly, then frowns a little as he feels Sherlock carefully, almost tenderly pulling his boxers up, and then refastening his jeans.  
  
Sherlock bows his head, resting his forehead against the front of John's left thigh. John doesn't know exactly why, but it feels like an apology. John threads his fingers into the back of Sherlock's hair, rubbing his scalp gently with his fingertips, hoping to convey some sort of acceptance. They stay like that for a while before they're jolted by the front door's slam and Lestrade's pounding steps on the stairs.  
  
As quick as a flash, Sherlock has moved away, striding purposefully into the sitting room while John just watches, his knees still shaking.  
  
* * * * *  
  
John’s knees still feel a bit weak half an hour later, as Sherlock examines the crime scene. He can’t stop staring at the hands which unzipped his jeans, at Sherlock’s hair, still tousled by passionate fingers, at the slightly-reddened lips which were so recently wrapped around his cock. At the mouth he came inside. The mouth which probably still tastes of John Watson.  
  
 _God_ , that mouth.  
  
That mouth is currently speaking to him.  
  
"Um. Sorry. What?" John asks, shaking himself mentally.  
  
"I asked you to look at the body," Sherlock says, all haughty impatience. "Do pay attention, John."  
  
"Sorry," John mutters, and moves to examine the body.  
  
Sherlock merely moves to one side.  
  
"Ligature marks around the neck. Petechial haemorrhaging in the eyes, consistent with asphyxia from strangulation," John says, confirming what Sherlock has no doubt deduced already. John lifts the body's right hand, examining it. "Dead about three hours, based on lividity."  
  
"And?" Sherlock murmurs.  
  
"And what? That’s all I’ve got," John says, frowning a little.  
  
Sherlock frowns deeply at John. John chews his bottom lip nervously.  
  
"All right," Sherlock murmurs, finally. "Thank you."  
  
John’s more confused by the thanks than by anything which has come before.  
  
Sherlock proceeds to detail all the things John missed in his examination of the body, and a few John couldn’t possibly have known besides. John hangs back for the rest of the half-hour they spend at the crime scene, and they don’t speak again until they’re in the cab, on the way home.  
  
"That was... amazing," John says, careful to keep his voice low as he leans over to Sherlock.  
  
"The crime scene?" Sherlock murmurs, frowning slightly. "Average."  
  
"No, the um. Before the crime scene."  
  
Sherlock grunts in reply, still absorbed in the text he’s composing on his phone.  
  
"I’ve never... I mean..." John stumbles over his words. "Thank you," he ends, lamely.  
  
"I don't have time to talk about that now," Sherlock says without even looking up.  
  
The dismissive tone of Sherlock's voice is like a glass of cold water over John.  
  
"Right," he mutters to himself. "Right..."  
  
Sherlock glances at John for a moment like he’s about to speak, then shakes his head and returns his attention to his mobile. John is too busy clenching his jaw and staring out the cab window to notice anyway.  
  
John is quiet for the rest of the cab ride, then tries again once they’re safely inside their flat.  
  
"Sherlock, we need to talk."  
  
"Again?" Sherlock says, sounding besieged as he fires up his laptop.  
  
"Yes, again."  
  
"I thought we agreed that no good comes of us talking about this."  
  
"I need to talk this out."  
  
"Right," Sherlock says, leaning against the table and putting his hands on his hips.  
  
"So..." John starts, the falters, the look on Sherlock’s face not exactly encouraging him to continue.  
  
Sherlock starts the conversation for him. "So, I performed fellatio on you. Big deal."  
  
"It’s a big deal to me."  
  
"I can see that. I fail to see why."  
  
John frowns.  
  
"Because it’s _sex_ , Sherlock. I had sex with my _male_ best friend. Why isn’t it a big deal to you?"  
  
"Because I’m _gay_ , John, and I enjoyed myself immensely. You did too."  
  
"Yeah, but -"  
  
"The only reason it’s becoming a big deal is because, worse than just being useless to me, you’re now actually getting in the way of my work."  
  
"Getting in the way?"  
  
"Yes. You’re a distraction."  
  
"Oh. I see."  
  
"This conversation is a perfect example of that. I could be working right now, but instead I'm being forced to have an unnecessary conversation."  
  
"Unnecessary? Right. Okay. Fine."  
  
"The work always comes first. It will always come before this... dalliance."  
  
"Dalliance?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
" _Dalliance_."  
  
"Dalliance, yes."  
  
"That’s all this is to you? Fuck you, Sherlock."  
  
"I’m busy. Maybe later."  
  
John clenches his fists and narrows his eyes at Sherlock. Sherlock cocks one eyebrow, tilting his head, apparently studying John’s reaction with interest.  
  
"You pestered me until I gave in and now what? Is this payback?"  
  
"No, it’s not some sort of silly revenge for your... reluctance."  
  
"You’re the one who wanted this!"  
  
"I wanted this, but I didn’t want... _this_ ," Sherlock makes a frustrated, expansive gesture which John supposes is meant to encompass the whole awkward current situation.  
  
"You don’t want to acknowledge what’s happened?"  
  
"I have no problem acknowledging it. What I don’t want is to agonise over it for hours and analyse it."  
  
"You want to analyse everything else – how is this any different? Am I less important somehow than the dead guy we just saw? Do I even rate a mention in the list of 'Things Sherlock Holmes Deems Important'?"  
  
"John, you're being deliberately difficult now. If I wanted ridiculous histrionics, I’d be chasing women," Sherlock sniffs. "I thought you were better than this."  
  
John just gapes at him, speechless with disbelief at both Sherlock's casual misogyny and the insult he's just been slapped with. Sherlock takes this as a sign that the conversation is over and he is free to go back to his work. He returns his attention to his laptop.  
  
"You... colossal _wanker_ ," John says, shaking his head.  
  
Sherlock doesn’t respond, doesn’t even give any indication that he’s still aware of John’s presence. John lets out a huff of breath and storms out of the flat.  
  
* * * * *  
  
John walks for about ten minutes before making up his mind what he’s going to do. What he’s going to do is walk into the next pub he sees and get nicely, comfortably pissed.  
  
The next pub turns out to be a warm, traditional little tavern. It’s quiet, he's one of only three people in the place. He orders a pint of bitter and goes to nurse it on a leather sofa in front of an anachronistic-looking plasma screen TV, which is showing the United v Tottenham match.  
  
A couple of hours later, John’s on his fourth pint and he’s made a new friend. His name’s Gabe and he’s from Spain. He has longish, black, wavy hair and the darkest brown eyes John has ever seen. He’s as gay as the day is long and has been furnishing John with beers in a so-far-quite-successful attempt at seduction.  
  
Light touches, bodily proximity, flattery, bedroom eyes, the guy’s really pulling out all the stops. John’s feeling very at ease as Gabe slides his arm along the back of the sofa, running his fingers through the short hairs above John’s ear.  
  
Honestly, John can’t remember the last time someone put in this much effort toward picking him up, let alone a _male_ someone. At best, this could be a very interesting night, at worst it will be confirmation of John’s suspicion that he’s not so much bisexual as Sherlock-sexual.  
  
John smiles a little as Gabe murmurs, low in his ear, "You’re a very sexy man, John."  
  
"Um. Thank you. Very much. That’s very kind."  
  
"I would very much like to kiss you," Gabe practically purrs.  
  
"Would you?" John asks, looking at Gabe now, his eyebrows raised.  
  
"Yes, I would," Gabe murmurs, nodding sincerely. "Will you let me?"  
  
John isn’t really sure he’s attracted to Gabe, but he looks into his dark eyes for a moment before murmuring, "Go ahead."  
  
Gabe immediately snakes his hand around behind John’s neck and pulls him close, taking his lips in a gentle but hungry kiss. John responds enthusiastically, surprising even himself, bunching his hands in the front of Gabe’s expensive black silk shirt.  
  
Even as his lips move against Gabe’s, he’s imagining what it would be like to kiss Sherlock. He’s wondering whether Sherlock would make those small groaning noises, whether he’d take control like Gabe, or let John take the lead. He wonders whether Sherlock would want to kiss him at all; if that’s even something Sherlock _does_.  
  
They kiss passionately for a few minutes, until John’s guilt at pretending Gabe is Sherlock gets the better of him. He breaks off the kiss and looks up into Gabe’s eyes, breathing out slowly.  
  
"Do you want to go somewhere?" Gabe asks, his eyes black with lust.  
  
"I... er..." John starts, startled.  
  
"I’ll do anything you want," Gabe whispers, brushing his lips against John’s again. "You can do anything you want to me..."  
  
"Anything?" John breathes, his body tingling, energised.  
  
"Anything at all. Suck me, fuck me... Hurt me..." Gabe whispers urgently, his breath hot on John’s lips. "I'll suck you... eat your ass... anything."  
  
" _God_..."  
  
"My body’s yours, if you want it," Gabe breathes, brushing his lips against John’s neck. "And I _know_ you want it."  
  
Gabe’s hand has strayed down to John’s crotch, gently exploring the hard cock it’s encountered there. He pulls back slightly and takes John’s lips again, kissing him breathless until John pulls away with a quiet groan.  
  
"Gabe. I’m sorry, but I can’t," John says, his lips still temptingly close to Gabe’s. He takes hold of Gabe’s wrist and pulls his hand away from his cock. "I have to get home."  
  
"The night is young," murmurs Gabe, "and I want you..."  
  
"I’ve got... I have someone. He's waiting at home for me," John breathes, desperately resisting the urge to kiss Gabe again. It seems that he’s bi, after all. Maybe tall, dark-haired, mysterious and forceful is just his type when it comes to guys.  
  
"Does he kiss like I do?" Gabe asks, then he kisses John again as though to give him a basis for comparison.  
  
John groans into Gabe’s mouth, running his palms up the smooth silk of his shirt as he gently pushes him away.  
  
"I don’t know," John sighs softly, his eyes closed. "I don’t know."  
  
"Ah, unrequited love." Gabe says sympathetically. "It’s a bitch, no?"  
  
"Tell me about it," John mutters, a wry smile on his lips as he meets Gabe’s eyes again.  
  
"I’ll requite you _all night long_ if you come with me..."  
  
"That’s a very tempting offer," John murmurs, and it really is.  
  
"But your answer is no," Gabe says, smiling a small, sad smile.  
  
"Sorry," John says. "I should go."  
  
"You can keep pretending I'm him, if you want to," Gabe whispers confidentially, leaning in close. "I don't even mind if you call me by his name. Fuck me in the dark, and you'd never know the difference..."  
  
John feels a sharp stab of guilt at this. How transparent must he be?  
  
"I... I can't do that, Gabe. It wouldn't be right," John says, but _fuck_ , he wants to.  
  
"It's your loss, beautiful John," Gabe purrs.  
  
Gabe steals one more heated kiss which rapidly spirals out of control, Gabe practically straddling John in his enthusiasm. John breaks off the kiss and looks up into Gabe's eyes, breathing unsteadily.  
  
"I really have to go, I'm sorry," John murmurs.  
  
Gabe smiles naughtily and moves away from John, then sprawls on the couch, his erection tenting his black trousers, his thighs parted indecently. John swallows, staring openly.  
  
"Christ," John exhales. "I _really am_ sorry."  
  
"I'll be here if you change your mind..."  
  
"Good night, Gabe."  
  
John smiles a little and shakes his head as he rises from the couch, avoiding looking at Gabe again. He leaves, Gabe unsubtly staring at his arse as he walks away.  
  
As he leaves the pub alone, John doesn’t see the tall figure cloaked in the darkness of a doorway across the road, watching, his pale face tight and worried.  
  
He’s blissfully unaware when that same tall figure catches Gabe coming out of the pub to follow John, renders him unconscious and drags him into an alley.


	3. Chapter 3

A few hours before dawn, the hem of the sheet cuts a tight, white line across the sleeping doctor's chest and collarbone. John struggles a little as he wakes, confused by his confinement. His eyes take a moment to adjust to the bright light of his bedside lamp and he squints straight up at Sherlock's serious face.  
  
"I’ve been thinking about you," Sherlock informs him, holding John's sheet and blankets and therefore, body, down tightly.  
  
"You... okay. Have you?"  
  
"I did. It gave me an erection. You gave me an erection."  
  
John just blinks as Sherlock illustrates his point by pushing his erect cock against his thigh, through sheet, blanket and pyjamas.  
  
"I, uh... so I feel," John manages to murmur.  
  
"Not for the first time tonight, either. I think you should help me with it, since you were the cause," Sherlock murmurs, pushing his hips against John's thigh. "I think it's only fair."  
  
John finds himself apologising without thinking.  
  
Sherlock chuckles quietly, delighted. "Oh, don't apologise. I'm quite enjoying myself."  
  
Coming to his senses somewhat, John frowns. "What are you doing, Sherlock? Why are you here?"  
  
"Because I want you, John. I need you," Sherlock breathes, moving his face closer to John’s.  
  
John turns his face to the side. "I locked my door for a reason."  
  
"You'll never be able to keep me out," Sherlock murmurs, "but you'll also never want to..."  
  
John frowns more deeply, his eyes involuntarily closing as Sherlock dips his head and scrapes his teeth against the stubble on his neck. He tries to suppress a shudder, but Sherlock knows, he knows him. Every pin-point accurate touch is like fire coursing through his body and he's powerless to resist the heat between them.  
  
He groans softly and pushes his hips up, grinding his hardening dick up against Sherlock's abdominal muscles. John hears his breath catch; it's clear that Sherlock wants this as badly as he does. John parts his knees and Sherlock takes the hint, slides up his body, resting between his thighs.  
  
The first contact of hard cock against hard cock is no less electric for the layers of sheets, blankets and pyjamas between them. John looks up to see a slight flush staining Sherlock's cheeks. He's so incredibly turned-on by Sherlock's bodily admission of lust that he pushes up against him a little harder than intended, causing them both to groan and smile simultaneously.  
  
"So I take it the case is... _ohh_... solved, then?"  
  
"Oh, yes. Depressingly simple in the end. "  
  
"Of course. And so you decided to honour me with your presence."  
  
"Yes, I did. And a certain part of your anatomy seems to appreciate that rather a lot," Sherlock muses, grinding his groin against John’s. "I hadn't envisaged you being quite so willing in light of our earlier conversation..."   
  
"I'm still furious with you."  
  
"I half-thought that I might have had to force you." Sherlock continues, ignoring John’s response.   
  
"No reason why you can't anyway..." John breathes, raising his head, trying to brush his lips against Sherlock's.  
  
Sherlock pulls away slightly, a teasing smile on his lips. "You're magnificent when you're angry, by the way..."  
  
"Have you been doing it on purpose?" John murmurs, frowning as he drops his head back onto the pillow.  
  
"No," Sherlock says, "but I've been enjoying it nonetheless..."  
  
Sherlock peppers the sensitive skin of John’s throat with playful, biting kisses. John internally curses his military bed-making training, struggling against the cotton to free himself.  
  
"Let me touch you..." John breathes. "I need to touch you."  
  
"I know what you need," Sherlock murmurs, "and that isn't it..."  
  
"Let my arms... ohhh _christ_... let my arms out of the covers."  
  
"No, John, I'm afraid I can't do that," Sherlock whispers, his lips brushing against John's left ear.   
  
"I can barely... breathe, Sherlock," John manages, gooseflesh spreading all up the left side of his body.  
  
"And you like that, don't you?" Sherlock murmurs against his lips, before kissing him fleetingly, barely a kiss at all.  
  
John shudders, his head lifting from the pillow, chasing the kiss, and breathes, "God, yes..."  
  
Sherlock smiles as he pulls away further, holding the sheet more tightly across John's shoulders.  
  
"You like being dominated, don't you?"  
  
John smiles helplessly and breathes, "I'm liking it right now..."  
  
"Would you like to be tied up and fucked?"  
  
John doesn't have to answer; his shuddering groan is answer enough.  
  
"Interesting," Sherlock muses, grinding his hips down harder, causing delicious friction on John's hard cock. "Have you been fucked before, John?"  
  
"You mean..."  
  
"Anal sex. Have you had a cock in your arse?"  
  
John pushes up harder against Sherlock, his body thrumming with lust, with need.  
  
"No," Sherlock answers for him, "you haven't. But you like the idea of it, don't you? You like the idea of a part of me inside of you..."  
  
"Sherlock..." John gasps. "Please..."  
  
"...spreading your thighs... lifting your knees... forcing my way inside you..."  
  
"Fuck..."  
  
Sherlock smiles breathlessly as he moves against John, "I wonder how tight your virgin body will be for me..."  
  
" _Christ_... fuck..."  
  
"How tightly you'll squeeze my cock as I fill you..."  
  
A small, hysterical part of John almost laughs at the sound of Sherlock's clipped, proper voice saying the word 'cock'.  
  
Sherlock echoes John's smile, a slightly confused look in his eye. "Something funny?" he murmurs.  
  
"God, yes," John breathes. "This is _insane_."  
  
"You're right. We should probably take things slow. Work up to full penetrative intercourse."  
  
"Sherlock, shut up and kiss me," John pleads, pushing his hips up hard.   
  
"You don't think it will 'make things weird'?"  
  
John lets out a frustrated groan and lifts his upper body from the bed, pushing Sherlock back, finally getting his arms free. No sooner are his arms liberated than they're wrapped around Sherlock's lean body, pulling him close as John claims his mouth in a crushing kiss.  
  
And it's _good_. It's _so good_. John doesn't think he's ever had a first kiss this good. He’s certainly never had one quite so pornographic, lips and teeth clashing in a struggle for dominance. Sherlock makes a tiny moaning noise as John takes control, flicking his tongue against Sherlock's lips, then prying insistently until he submits. Their tongues touch and they both groan wholeheartedly, the kiss deepening, their bodies moving together instinctively.  
  
Sherlock pushes John back down against the bed, forcing his head against the pillows as he attempts to take control again. John runs his fingertips lightly down Sherlock's spine and feels him shiver in his arms. This small taste of vulnerability from his friend makes John hold on a little tighter, push his hips up a little harder, kiss him a little more desperately.  
  
Sherlock breaks the kiss and pulls back, John giving a small, bereft moan. He quickly moves to stand beside the bed and pulls the covers down violently, freeing John. His eyes rake down the doctor's prone form and rest for a moment on the erection tenting his pyjama bottoms. John shifts slightly on the bed, suddenly feeling self-conscious and exposed.  
  
"Don't be like that, John," Sherlock murmurs, then he pulls his thin inside-out t-shirt up and over his head, dropping it on John's bedroom floor. He looks down, a slight smile quirking his lips as John looks him up and down, taking in the expanse of pale skin over toned but lean muscles. His eyes rest on Sherlock's own trouser-tent.  
  
"I'm not being like anything..." John says, a little breathless.  
  
"Tell me you don't want me _now_ ," Sherlock murmurs, his eyes twinkling wickedly.  
  
"I couldn't even if I tried," John concedes, looking back up into Sherlock's eyes. "Come here."  
  
Sherlock smirks and joins John on the bed, lying on his side beside him, trailing his fingertips down the front of the t-shirt John sleeps in. John swallows, watching the pale hand slowly, slowly moving down his torso. His cock gives a highly interested twitch when he thinks about the possibility of Sherlock curling his long fingers around it.   
  
Sherlock’s fingers stop at the bottom hem of the pyjama top, gripping the soft, worn fabric and dragging it slowly upwards. John watches Sherlock’s face carefully, feeling his own burning red, his heart thudding violently in his chest. Sherlock’s eyes are locked on John’s slowly-revealed tummy and he’s unconsciously biting the inside of his bottom lip.   
  
John has just started to take this as a very good sign when Sherlock shuffles down slightly, dips his head and starts kissing a chaotic, weaving trail up the exposed skin. John’s fingers thread gently into Sherlock’s dark hair, not pushing or pulling, just stroking his scalp. John is mesmerised, watching Sherlock’s pink lips moving over his slightly-tanned flesh. He shudders, thinking back to how they looked, stretched around his cock. His gaze moves to Sherlock’s eyes and he finds them looking steadily back at him.  
  
"Getting ahead of yourself, aren’t you?" Sherlock murmurs against John’s sternum, before licking a long slow line up to his collar bone.   
  
"How do you... ah... do that?" John breathes as Sherlock pushes the t-shirt up and off, over his head, tossing it carelessly off the side of the bed.   
  
"Wouldn’t want to spoil the mystery," Sherlock whispers in John’s ear, settling beside him on the bed once more.  
  
"Telepathy is impolite," John breathes as he turns his head, then kisses Sherlock full on the lips, turning onto his side, pushing the taller man onto his back.   
  
John straddles him and lets out a loud groan into Sherlock's mouth as he feels the detective's hands slide down his back to his arse, pulling their hips together. He breaks off the kiss for a moment, just looking down into his pale blue-grey-green eyes.   
  
Sherlock chooses that moment to slip his hands into the back of John's pyjama bottoms, cupping his arse cheeks with both hands, squeezing and parting them as he pulls John’s groin against him. John swallows, looking slightly panicked for a moment, and Sherlock lifts his head and captures his parted lips in a sudden, hard kiss, forcing his tongue against John's before he can start thinking too much.  
  
Taking advantage of John’s distraction, Sherlock somehow manages to get both pairs of pyjama pants down around their thighs, then off entirely. John breaks off the kiss and stares into Sherlock’s eyes for a long moment before looking down to see his bare cock pressed against Sherlock’s.  
  
John thrusts his hips experimentally, letting out a soft groan as his cock stutters and drags against Sherlock’s. It’s quite possibly the sexiest thing he’s ever seen, at the same time as being the most unexpected. John’s mouth waters at the sight of Sherlock’s thick, flushed cock head, pressed against his own.   
  
Before he’s really aware of what he’s doing, John is sliding down the bed, dragging his lips down Sherlock’s pale chest and abdomen. Sherlock gasps noisily and starts to protest, but that’s when John’s lips reach his dick. He presses a gentle, almost chaste kiss to the underside of the head and all objections die on Sherlock’s lips.  
  
John has no idea what he’s doing, so he does what he enjoys women doing to him. It’s a bit different, with Sherlock being uncircumcised, but the principle is the same. He pulls the foreskin back gently and takes the head of Sherlock’s cock carefully into his mouth, his lips covering his teeth. He flicks his tongue through the slit in the tip and Sherlock lets out an almost inaudible moan, so John assumes he must be doing something right.  
  
John flattens his tongue against the underside of Sherlock's dick and takes him deeper. Sherlock tastes salty and a little sour on his tongue. John had expected the taste to be a turn-off, but the texture of the velvety head against his tongue combines with the taste, makes him feel lightheaded and makes his mouth water even more. The smell of Sherlock’s sex fills his nostrils as he breathes in through his nose. John doesn’t mean to, but he groans loudly around his mouthful as he takes Sherlock cautiously deeper still.  
  
John doesn’t think his dick’s ever been this hard. It’s aching, pressed against the mattress as he slowly bobs his head, sucking Sherlock’s cock. If he’s not careful, he’ll come just from the friction he’s generating against his bottom sheet and the almost-overwhelming full-body sensation of having Sherlock in his mouth. He definitely didn’t expect to enjoy sucking cock as much as he does, but _god_ , he enjoys the hell out of it.  
  
When John finally dares to open his eyes, he looks up and sees Sherlock staring down at him, head raised from the pillow, high cheekbones flushed, full lips parted and wet, pale eyes half-closed with pleasure but still fixed on him. The man looks like sex incarnate. Sherlock’s thighs are spread wide and he’s gently caressing his own chest with languid, graceful fingers. A moment later, those same languid, graceful fingers grip his right nipple and squeeze cruelly, Sherlock letting out a choked moan, his eyes still locked on John's.  
  
John abruptly pulls off Sherlock's cock, his lips smacking lewdly as they release the head. He crawls up Sherlock's body once again and their lips meet in a furious kiss. John groans as he grinds his cock against Sherlock's, Sherlock holding him tightly against his body, legs tangled with John's, fingernails digging into his back, trying to claw him closer.  
  
John feels lost in the best possible way. He's surrendered himself utterly to the lust coursing through his veins, energising every atom of his being. He wants this man more than he's ever wanted anything; more, he thinks, than he ever _will_ want anything.  
  
This is nothing like the desire John has felt in the past, nothing at all like the desire he’s felt for women. The desire he’d felt for cute Sally McPhee in high school had been as shy and delicate as she was. The desire he’d felt for Clara when they’d first met had been a need to hold her, cherish her and please her, make her smile. The desire he’d felt for Sarah was slow-burning and comfortable, almost lazy.  
  
It’s not even like the half-admitted desire he’s occasionally felt for men. Semi-drunk notions of snogging the face off his high-school best friend Nathan when they were playing truant; a mostly-intellectual crush on his favourite (male) lecturer at university, which culminated in a couple of dates with hand-holding and gentle kisses but nothing more; the occasional leisurely barracks-downtime mutual handjob session with sweet young Private Parker in Afghanistan. Encounters he'd previously written off as curiosity, hero-worship and desperation, respectively, now shown to him in a different light: the light cast by Sherlock Holmes. All examples of his now-acknowledged experimentation with and desire for men, but still nothing compared to what he's feeling right now.  
  
This is a completely different beast; desperate, feral, and _wanting_ , and anything but gentle. In fact, beast is the right word, exactly the right word, because this desire is purely animal in nature. It’s all about gratification and power and need. He doesn’t want to gently cherish Sherlock the way he did any of the ones who came before. He wants to take out all the sexual frustration he's felt over the last few weeks, on the person who caused it. He wants to fuck Sherlock until he grunts, until he comes, until he shows that he’s human, an animal, just like John, after all. He wants to mark him and be inside him and own him. He's swept away by this incredibly visceral need, stripped of all control. He wants to make Sherlock understand, make him feel it too.  
  
They rut against one another in the half-light, groaning and groping and devouring each other. John’s whole body craves Sherlock like a drug, like sustenance, like something he can’t be without. He wants to devour Sherlock, wants Sherlock inside him in the most urgent, desperate way, in a way he’s never felt before. He wants Sherlock in his blood, in his muscles, pumping through his veins, in his mouth, and in a place he _definitely_ never expected to want a man. _Especially_ there.   
  
His medical mind is well aware of the mechanics of anal sex and prostate stimulation, but he never expected to _want_ anyone to go anywhere near that area of his body. The couple of girlfriends who had tried with tentatively probing fingers, he’d gently rebuffed.   
  
But he wants it now. _God_ , but he wants it. It’s nothing short of terrifying, and he clings to Sherlock, clutching at his pale skin, his fingertips leaving even paler trails in their wake. The idea of Sherlock taking him is enough to have him panting and desperate. The thought of Sherlock inside him, possessing him in a way nobody else ever has, likely in a way nobody else ever will.  
  
The danger is part of it. He knows how dangerous it could be, letting Sherlock in, giving an emotionally stunted self-declared sociopath the power to really hurt him, a power nobody else has ever held. He knows, but his hands are steady if a bit sweaty, his body is flooded with adrenaline and he wouldn’t dream of ever saying anything but _yes_ to Sherlock. Not ever. Not when he feels like this. Not when Sherlock can _make_ him feel like this.  
  
He wants Sherlock in every way imaginable, and he's sure Sherlock could come up with a few ways beyond that.  
  
"Fuck me, Sherlock," John breathes urgently, between kisses. "God, fuck me..."   
  
Sherlock stiffens in John’s arms and whispers, "What?"   
  
John ignores Sherlock's reaction, moving to kiss his neck desperately.  
  
"Fuck me…" he pants against heated skin. "I want you, _christ_ , I _want_ you in me..."  
  
Sherlock roughly grabs hold of John's short, sandy hair, pulls his head back and studies his face; cheeks flushed, lips parted and swollen from being kissed, a delicious sheen of sweat on his skin, desire obvious in his dilated pupils and the slightly-feral look on his face. Something unreadable flashes across Sherlock’s eyes.   
  
"I can’t have you hating me," Sherlock murmurs. "That just wouldn’t do."   
  
"What?" John almost whines, utterly confused. "God, please..."  
  
"No," Sherlock says simply, then kisses John until he’s on his back, breathless and clinging to him and unable to argue.   
  
John is helplessly bucking his hips up, letting out quiet grunting noises as he rubs his cock up against Sherlock’s body. Sherlock breaks off the kiss and pushes up slightly, watching John’s face, taking in his squeezed-closed eyes, the flush of the skin of his neck. He estimates John is only moments away from coming and abruptly moves his hips away.  
  
"John," he says quietly, "look at me."  
  
John blinks his eyes open and looks up at Sherlock, his brow slightly creased.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
"I want you to fuck me, John."  
  
"Oh my god..."  
  
Sherlock shuffles up and reaches across to the bedside table to pick up a pump bottle of lube which wasn’t there when John went to bed. John is too distracted to notice this, however, because Sherlock’s cock is busy waving itself enticingly in his face as he straddles his tummy. He lifts his head, trying to lick it, but he can’t quite reach. Sherlock pumps lube into the palm of his hand, drops the lube carelessly off the side of the bed, then reaches behind himself and takes hold of John’s cock, stroking slickness onto his shaft.  
  
John swallows hard and looks up at Sherlock’s face.  
  
"Are you… I mean. Sure?"  
  
"Yes," Sherlock says simply, his voice lower and huskier than usual as he lets go of John’s cock and shuffles back slightly, his eyes burning into John’s.  
  
"Should I… um… prepare you, first?"  
  
Sherlock raises an eyebrow at this.  
  
"Been Googling, have you?"  
  
"No, I just…" John murmurs, feeling a blush creep up his face and neck. "Well. I. Yes."  
  
"I took care of that before I came in."  
  
John’s mouth stalls for a few moments while his brain flashes him some (quite graphic) images of Sherlock fucking himself with his long fingers, or with his intimidating black dildo. _God, that dildo._  
  
"Uhh…"  
  
Sherlock’s lips twitch, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinizes John’s facial expression; clearly reading John’s mind. Again.  
  
"John Watson, that’s positively filthy," he says, his voice low and full of desire. "I’m surprised at you."  
  
"Pleasantly, I ho— _ohh_ …" John trails off mid sentence, his eyes flicking down to his groin.  
  
A cool, slick hand has taken hold of John’s cock again and is rubbing the head back and forth against the heated pucker of Sherlock’s entrance. John swallows convulsively, keeping his hips perfectly still, staring down at Sherlock’s cock and balls, then past to see his own shaft moving.  
  
"John," Sherlock commands, "look at me."  
  
John immediately complies, looking up at Sherlock’s face.  
  
"Hi…" he breathes, his brow creasing in concentration, trying to ignore everything other than those pale eyes.  
  
"Hello," Sherlock murmurs and slowly sinks down, taking just the head of John’s cock inside his tight, hot hole.  
  
"Oh _god_ …" John whimpers, his body tensing, staring up into Sherlock’s eyes.  
  
"Just Sherlock," the detective breathes, a small smile twitching his lips.  
  
"Anything," John begs, offers, prays. "Sherlock, just… _yes_ …"  
  
John tries to keep his breathing steady and even as Sherlock moves above him, slowly raising then lowering his hips, taking John’s cock inside him inch by agonizing inch, a little deeper with each rise and fall. The look on Sherlock’s face is like nothing John has ever seen during sex; completely present, so utterly focused on John that he feels like the centre of the universe. All that exists is John and Sherlock and John inside Sherlock, and Sherlock sinking all the way down onto John’s iron-hard shaft, and John with his breath taken away and Sherlock all around him.  
  
John’s cock buried inside him to the hilt, Sherlock stills.  
  
"All right?" Sherlock murmurs, almost cautiously, studying John’s face.  
  
"Yes," John whispers, wonderingly, his hands automatically reaching for Sherlock’s hips.  
  
Sherlock is passive and silent as John starts to slowly rock those pale, lean hips on his cock. John bites his bottom lip hard, his eyes roaming all over Sherlock’s body, his lithe muscles, his long, hard, beautiful dick. He's never found a dick beautiful before, but he sure as hell does right now. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone as breathtaking as this man; every part of him is stunning.   
  
He lifts Sherlock gently, then pulls him back down on his cock. John is surprised at the guttural moan which tears itself from his throat. Sherlock is staring down into John’s eyes, still taking a passive role despite his position.  
  
"Sherlock..."  
  
"Yes, John?" Sherlock says, clearly trying to sound calm and in control and failing miserably, his voice coming out rough and needy.  
  
"Ride me..." John breathes, his hands tightening on Sherlock’s hips.  
  
"Yes, sir," Sherlock rumbles, a sultry smirk quirking his lips.  
  
He then plants each of his hands on John’s shoulders and starts riding him steadily, his eyes locked on John’s face. A faraway part of John's brain registers a twinge in his shoulder, but it's a very, _very_ minor concern in the grand scheme of sensations his body is experiencing.  
  
"Like that?" Sherlock breathes.  
  
"Ohh, just like that," John groans, thrusting his hips slowly, forcing his cock up into Sherlock’s body.  
  
Those are the last coherent words John manages to get out for a while. Sherlock is tight and hot and responsive and before long, John has managed to sit up, has wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s thin-but-strong body, has hooked his hands over Sherlock’s shoulders and is pulling him down hard onto his dick. Sherlock has dropped his head to kiss John, a constant, demanding kiss, both men groaning into it as they move together. Sherlock’s thigh muscles tremble as he rides John’s cock, resisting John’s strength as the shorter man drags him down, forces him to take his thick, hard dick inside him over and over and over.  
  
John can barely believe what’s happening. He can barely believe that Sherlock is letting him do this, that Sherlock even wants it. He can barely believe his luck. He breaks the kiss to stare up at Sherlock’s face, to reassure himself that this is real. Sherlock’s eyes flutter open and John feels the full force of the man’s focus again. His body gives an involuntary shudder as he looks helplessly into Sherlock’s eyes.  
  
It’s really not that different to sex with a woman, but at the same time it's completely different and so much better. John never knew sex could be like this, so intense, so all-consuming, so utterly overwhelming. So fucking _hot_. But, mechanically, it’s not so different. So why is it so much better? So much… _more?_ Why does he feel like he’s closer to this mad, wild, alien creature, this extraordinary man, than he’s ever been, to anyone?  
  
All coherent thought goes out the window when Sherlock’s face changes. One moment he’s completely focused on John, staring into his eyes, analysing his reactions, his pupil dilation, hell, probably his heart rate, and the next his eyes have slipped closed, his face going slack with bliss as John wraps his hand around Sherlock's rigid shaft.  
  
"Oh god, John, don't..." Sherlock gasps, his hips stilling, his arse spasming and tightening around John's cock. "I can't..."  
  
"Gonna make you come for me..." John breathes, moving his hand on Sherlock's shaft, mesmerised by the expression on his face.  
  
"No, please..." Sherlock whispers, his body starting to tremble. "It's too much..."  
  
John stills his hand and orders, "Take it. Ride me. Fuck my hand."  
  
Sherlock's eyes snap open and he stares down into John's as he starts to move again, short, sharp thrusts of his hips, forcing himself down on John's cock, then forcing his own throbbing hard dick through John's tightening fist.   
  
"Incredible," John breathes, awed, drinking in the sight of Sherlock Holmes, losing control. "You're incredible..."  
  
Even in the midst of the hottest sex of John's life, he can recognise Sherlock preening at his reverential compliment.  
  
"I... Oh _god_ , John..." Sherlock moans, his forehead creasing as his body shudders.  
  
John twists his hand on Sherlock's cock and he cries out, his whole body tightening as he orgasms, his fingertips digging into John's shoulders, his cock shooting streams of white over John's chest and neck. He's so tight around John's cock that he can barely thrust into him, can barely move at all. John quickly follows him over the edge, curling in on himself as he comes deep inside Sherlock's superheated, incredibly tight body, the detective's movements dragging ragged moans from his throat, making him cry out against Sherlock's sweaty, slippery chest.  
  
John shudders through the aftershocks of his orgasm as Sherlock keeps moving, grinding himself down on the cock buried inside him, until finally it becomes too much and John holds him tighter to keep him still. Sherlock struggles for only a few moments before stilling, his arms still around John's shoulders, breathing heavily into his dirty-blond hair. John releases Sherlock's cock and wraps his other arm around him, Sherlock wrinkling his nose slightly as John's come-slicked hand slides across his back.  
  
John holds Sherlock until his breathing evens out, feeling like he’s just had sex for the first time. Like every other sexual experience he’s ever had was just foreplay. He feels thoroughly fucked and satisfied in a way he never has before. Except that he doesn’t, he wants to do it again. Over and over. (Forever).  
  
After a little while, Sherlock pushes John to lie down on the bed. He looks down at him for a few moments before gently lifting off and moving to lie beside him on the bed. They lie in silence for several minutes, on their backs, John staring at the ceiling and Sherlock with his eyes closed.  
  
The longer the silence goes on, the more John feels like he should say something, anything. He turns his head to look at Sherlock, and then turns his body to lie on his side, just watching him in silence. John is just starting to think Sherlock has nodded off when he turns his head toward John, his eyes still closed. He slowly opens his eyes and John feels a sharp spike of lust through his gut as Sherlock's lazy, sensual gaze settles upon him.  
  
John swallows and murmurs, "So… that was…"  
  
"Yes, it was."  
  
"God yes."  
  
"We’re quite good at that."  
  
"Definitely."  
  
"Really quite... compatible."  
  
"I was just going to say that."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Oh yes."  
  
"We should do it again some time."  
  
"Mmm, we absolutely should."  
  
A short period of quiet and stillness follows, the only sound their breathing, the only movement John’s lazy fingers trailing slowly up and down Sherlock’s chest.  
  
"Got your breath back?" Sherlock murmurs.  
  
"Ready when you are…" John breathes, grinning.


	4. Chapter 4

Late morning the next day, John wakes up alone. The other side of the bed is cold when he slides his hand across the rumpled, untucked sheet. He frowns slightly as he rolls onto his back and looks at the ceiling.  
  
John runs his right hand across his chest, under the sheet, grimacing slightly as his fingertips get caught in the come-matted, tangled mess of his chest hair. He pauses for a long moment before pulling his hand free of the covers and sniffing his fingertips. A jolt of desire goes through his body as he smells Sherlock, sweat and sex.  
  
He tucks his hand behind his head and closes his eyes, replaying the events of the previous evening in his mind. His whole body is aching from the hours of energetic, frenetic fucking the night before, and he's a little surprised at himself when he finds a dirty, satisfied smirk settling on his face.  
  
He turns his head to the side and catches a whiff of the scent of Sherlock's hair. The smell of the man jerks something inside him with a strong sense of longing. He wishes Sherlock was still with him and wonders where he might be. He catches himself thinking this and frowns at himself.  
  
John grabs the pillow from the vacant side of the bed and puts it over his face, breathing out heavily. Rather than smothering him as he'd hoped, the pillow only serves to give him a much stronger sampling of Sherlock's scent on his next breath in. He lets out a helpless groan into the cotton cover and practically launches himself out of bed, his thigh muscles complaining as he stands. He throws the pillow back onto the bed, frowning.  
  
He retrieves his pyjama pants from where they lie, discarded on the floor in the heat of passion the night before, and steps into them. He finds his t-shirt draped over his knocked-over bedside lamp and pulls it on over his head as he exits his bedroom.  
  
When he gets downstairs, he finds the flat empty. He calls Sherlock's name, frowning, before walking to his bedroom door. He knocks gently before pushing the door open on Sherlock's empty room. His frown deepens and he walks back into the kitchen.  
  
His hand pauses on the way to turning on the kettle, seeing a post-it note stuck to the lid.  
  
In Sherlock's scrawled handwriting, it reads:  
  
 _New case. Back later.  
SH_  
  
That's the last John hears from Sherlock for three days.  
  
  
* * * * *  
  
By the end of the first day, John's a bit concerned, so he texts Sherlock. He plays it cool, just asking him if he'll be in for dinner. He sits his phone on the sofa beside him, watches QI on Dave and pretends he's not waiting for Sherlock's reply. He still hasn't received a response by the time he goes to bed, quite late that night. He falls into bed with a heavy sigh of annoyance.  
  
The next morning, the first thing he does upon waking is check his phone for texts. None have arrived overnight. He frowns at his phone as though blaming it for the lack of a response from his AWOL flatmate. He texts him again, a slightly less cool 'Where the hell are you?' He stares at his phone for a good ten minutes, a gnawing feeling growing in his gut with each passing one.  
  
He puts his phone aside in disgust and goes to have a shower. It's not like it's the first time Sherlock's just disappeared without a word. He's behaving like... like the man's _mother_. Like a wife. Like a boyfriend. John doesn't know what he and Sherlock are to one another, but he knows they aren't even close to that stage yet.  
  
Yet? John mentally chides himself. Talk about putting the horse before the cart. He's not even sure he wants that with Sherlock.  
  
After his shower, John calls Sherlock’s phone. It goes straight to his (rather brusque) voicemail without ringing. He swears as he ends the call without leaving a message.  
  
He potters aimlessly around the flat for most of the day, unwilling to admit to himself that he's worried, tidying up some of Sherlock’s old experiments and cleaning out the fridge. He ventures out in the late afternoon to do a Tesco shop. While waiting in line at the checkout, he thinks he sees Sherlock walk past the plate-glass windows at the front of the supermarket. He abandons his basket and races out to catch him, startling the random man-in-a-long-coat he’s mistaken for Sherlock. He apologises profusely, embarrassed, and makes a hasty retreat, forgetting all about the shopping until he’s already back at home.  
  
He’s shaken by his reaction to having thought he’d seen Sherlock. The immense relief, followed by a sick feeling in his stomach when it wasn’t him after all. It's not how he should feel about a flatmate, or even a friend. He’s realised just how much he misses Sherlock, and it’s thrown him for a loop. Previously to today, he’d thought that Sherlock wouldn’t survive two days without John to look after him; now he realises that the relationship is far more complicated than that. He needs Sherlock just as Sherlock needs him.  
  
He wonders if he might be falling in love with Sherlock. Then he realises how ridiculous the notion of falling in love Sherlock is; He suddenly knows he fell months ago. The realisation hits him like a punch to the gut. The running around after him, the running out on dates with Sarah, the eagerness to be at his beck and call: it all makes sense. He's utterly smitten, isn't he? Utterly smitten and doomed.  
  
At the end of the second day, he texts both Lestrade and Mycroft, a simple, " **Hi, have you seen Sherlock? John W** ". Lestrade replies immediately, with " **No, been trying to text/call him for two days. Get him to call me when you see him**." The message to Mycroft sits in his outbox, unable to be sent, number not recognised. Typical.  
  
John sets his mouth into a determined, thin line, and calls Sherlock’s phone again. Straight to voicemail, again. This time he leaves a message. "Sherlock, it’s John. John Watson, remember me? Your err... flatmate. If you could give me a call at your earliest convenience, I’d appreciate it, so I can stop imagining you dead in a ditch somewhere. Thanks."  
  
After he hangs up, the reality of what he’s just said actually hits him. What if Sherlock really is... No. He won’t allow himself to think that. He’s going to stay angry at Sherlock until the daft bastard comes home. And he will come home. He will. And then John will yell at him, Sherlock will completely fail to apologise, and everything will go on as normal. It has to. It _has_ to.  
  
As an afterthought, he composes a text, "Please come home. I miss you."  
  
John stares at that message for a good, long while, an internal debate raging as to whether he should send it. Would he be giving too much away? Would Sherlock mock him for it later on? Has he ever really missed anyone quite as much as he misses Sherlock right at this moment?  
  
He falls asleep on the second night, on the couch, with his phone still clutched in his hand, the message unsent. He wakes up the next morning with his phone gently cradled against his cricked neck and Mycroft Holmes regarding him coolly from the armchair across the room.  
  
John blinks and sits up, stretches his neck and looks down at his phone in his hand, frowning before cancelling the message, saving it to drafts. Mycroft indulges himself in a private little smile, giving John the distinct impression that he knows what the message contained.  
  
"Good morning, Doctor Watson," Mycroft says. "I was hoping to have a chat with my brother, but I see that he isn’t in."  
  
"No, he’s not. I take it you don’t know where he is?" John asks, eyes narrowing as he attempts to gauge the veracity of the elder Holmes brother’s response.  
  
"Haven’t the faintest," Mycroft admits, "which is... unusual."  
  
"When did you last see him?"  
  
"Oh, a couple of days ago," Mycroft says airily, "but I’m sure he’s fine."  
  
"You, Big Brother, last saw him a couple of days ago, but you’re sure he’s fine? You always know where he is."  
  
"True, but he has a reason to come home now," Mycroft says, a slight, polite smirk curling his lips. "Unless my sources are mistaken as to the nature of his... attachment to you."  
  
John feels his face redden and he stammers out, "Well. I."  
  
"I didn’t think so. Once, my dear brother disappeared for two weeks. He lived on the street for that time, without any ill effects. He’s quite capable of looking after himself, you know. Despite all appearances to the contrary."  
  
"Why did he do it?"  
  
"He never said. Just for fun, I expect."  
  
"Right," John murmurs, frowning.  
  
"Have you given him a reason to leave?"  
  
"No. I mean. I don’t think so, no."  
  
"Then I’m sure he’ll be home soon," Mycroft says with finality, as though he's just solved the problem.  
  
"But... Moriarty..."  
  
"In Stockholm, the last I heard."  
  
"Right. Okay."  
  
John isn’t comforted by this news, or even sure if Mycroft is just saying that to make him feel better. It doesn't seem like something Mycroft would do, but John isn't sure of anything at the moment.  
  
Mycroft rises from his chair and twirls his umbrella thoughtfully between his perfectly manicured fingers before meeting John's eye.  
  
"Do let me know when he makes an appearance, won't you? I'd rather that I didn't have to look for him myself. Leg work, you understand," he says, his nose wrinkling delicately with distaste.  
  
"I will," John lies. He can tell from the expression on Mycroft's face that he's seen straight through the lie.  
  
"Good day, Doctor Watson," Mycroft says, a patently false smile on his face. "I'll see myself out."  
  
John watches the elder Holmes leave, then rubs his face tiredly. He presses the speed dial button on his phone assigned to Sherlock and listens as it goes straight to voicemail yet again. He ends the call and sighs heavily.  
  
* * * * *  
  
  
John spends the early afternoon on his laptop, searching the internet for any sign of Sherlock. There have been no updates to Sherlock's website, no posts on the internet forums he haunts, no snarky comments on John's blog... No sign of him at all.  
  
In the late afternoon John heads out, taking a walking tour of all of their regular haunts, but fails to locate Sherlock. Angelo hasn't seen him, neither has Rosemary at the local Chinese restaurant. He goes further afield, to Bart's and the Yard, but there's no sign of Sherlock there either. Finally, he reluctantly goes to the pool where they met Moriarty for the second time. There is no sign of Sherlock and the place still gives him the willies so John leaves as quickly as he can. On his way home, the local Big Issue sellers haven't seen their mysterious benefactor, or if they have, they aren't speaking up. John returns to the flat just on dusk, favouring his right leg slightly.  
  
He collapses in Sherlock's armchair and checks his mobile, finding no messages. He's just raising his phone to his ear, calling Sherlock, when he hears the front door slam open, then closed. Long legs take the stairs two at a time and John closes his eyes in silent prayer as he ends the call and sits his phone on the arm of the chair.  
  
There is a silent pause for a few moments, then John opens his eyes and looks at Sherlock, standing in the doorway. He's looking remarkably well-groomed for somebody who has been missing for three days.  
  
 _The daft git isn't dead after all_ , John thinks. _I'm going to kill him_.  
  
"Honey, I'm home," Sherlock rumbles, a small smile on his lips.  
  
John sets his mouth into a thin, angry line as he stands, refusing to let that tone of voice have its usual effect on him. _Definitely going to kill him_.  
  
"So I see."  
  
Sherlock, of course, misses the hard edge in John's voice as he turns and shrugs out of his coat. A small self-sealed bag of white powder falls from Sherlock's coat pocket as he hangs the garment on the wall. Both men look down at it for a long, silent moment.  
  
Sherlock turns quickly to look at John.  
  
"Well, at least I know you weren't doing anything stupid while you were gone," John huffs, disgusted.  
  
"That's evidence. It's not mine," Sherlock says, taking a step toward him.  
  
"Sure, sure. Whatever. None of my business," John says, shaking his head and holding up his hands.  
  
"You're right, it _is_ none of your business," Sherlock murmurs, "but you're wrong."  
  
"None of my business. Like where you've been for the last three days? Is that my business?"  
  
"Not really, but since you ask, I've been working."  
  
"Lestrade hasn't heard from you."  
  
"Correct. I was incognito."  
  
"Unreachable, more like," John says, frowning.  
  
"Distractions would have been detrimental to my focus."  
  
"So we're back to that again, are we?"  
  
"I didn't mean just _you_ , John. Not everything is about _you_."  
  
"Some things must be, surely!"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I mean that one day, one glorious, far off day, you might actually consider my feelings."  
  
"Your what? Why on earth would your feelings be relevant to the case?"  
  
"Maybe not to the case, but to _you!_ You disappeared the morning after we... after we slept together. You didn't think about how that would look? You'll forgive me if I see a connection between the two things."  
  
"A connection which isn't there, I assure you. I don't see why you're so upset, anyway. It's not the first time I've been unreachable."  
  
"For three days, though? Never for three days. Not since the pool."  
  
Sherlock clenches his jaw and swallows at the mention of their encounter with Moriarty.  
  
"Moriarty could have had you! Anything could have happened! Do you have any idea the things that have been going through my head?"  
  
John is shaking as he berates Sherlock. Sherlock watches him with a confused look on his face, clearly not knowing how to react to the situation.  
  
"I've been worried sick! Did you even think of me at all?"  
  
"I was busy. I didn't have time to think about you."  
  
"You-! Right. Right, okay."  
  
"That wasn't what I meant-"  
  
"-No, it's fine, Sherlock, I get it. You don't need to explain."  
  
John walks past Sherlock and heads for the door.  
  
"Where are you going?"  
  
John rounds on Sherlock furiously, taking a step toward him, Sherlock taking a quick, bewildered step back.  
  
"So you can disappear for three. Fucking. Days. Without a word to me, doing god only knows what, and I have to tell you my every movement? No. No, that's not how it works."  
  
"I've said sorry for that."  
  
"No, you kinda haven't, actually. But then I guess apologies aren't really your strong suit, are they?"  
  
"Well, no, but-"  
  
"Apologies and thinking about the feelings of others. Alien concepts to you."  
  
John grabs his jacket almost violently from the hook on the wall by the door.  
  
"Yes, but- please-"  
  
"I'm going out."  
  
John shrugs angrily into his jacket and heads for the stairs. Sherlock catches his arm, stopping him.  
  
"Tell me where you're going. Please."  
  
"None of your business," John snarls, pulling his arm from Sherlock's grip.  
  
"It is my business, John. Are you going out to pick up some random guy in a pub? ‘Gabe’ was married, you know. He was married and from Walthamstow. He didn’t even have a real accent," Sherlock says, with an unattractive air of smugness.  
  
"You followed me?" John says, stunned.  
  
Sherlock ploughs on regardless, "Married with three kids, an amphetamine habit and a switchblade in his back pocket."  
  
"I said, you _followed me?_ "  
  
"Of course I followed you. I care about your wellbeing."  
  
"So, what, you're stalking me?" John demands, furious. Then he smiles, a bitter, angry smile. "Actually, I don’t know why I’m surprised by that."  
  
"I think I have a right to know where my b- my partner goes when he storms off."  
  
John’s eyes widen as Sherlock corrects himself mid-sentence.  
  
"I’m not your _boyfriend_ , Sherlock. I don’t know what we are to each other, but it’s definitely not anywhere even close to that. I’m just a convenience. You’ve shown me that time and time again."  
  
"That’s not true," Sherlock says, grabbing at John’s arm.  
  
"No, it _is_ true, and I’m _bloody_ sick of it," John grits out, wrenching his arm away. "I’m done with this."  
  
"John-" Sherlock starts.  
  
"No. You’re a spoiled, arrogant prick, and I’m tired of your shit. I’m leaving and you’re _not_ going to follow me."  
  
"John, please, I don’t want you to get hurt," Sherlock pleads, reaching for his arm again.  
  
"And that won’t happen if I stay?" John says, his voice low and dangerous, staring Sherlock down. "I’ll take my chances with ‘Gabe’ any day."  
  
Sherlock is still looking like he’s just been slapped when John slams the downstairs outside door.  
  
* * * * *  
  
He walks. A fast walk, a purposeful one. The purpose being escape. Not to anywhere in particular, because Sherlock knows all the places he would go, and the last thing he wants right now is to be found.  
  
He never used to be the type to run away. He used to be the stoic, steadfast, staying-til-the-bitter-end type, but a lot of things have changed recently. He doesn't look at himself the same way anymore.  
  
Being around Sherlock throws him off-balance. The protective instinct he’s always had toward the man has evolved into something more, much more, but it’s obvious that John is nothing more to Sherlock than a hired gun without the pay, a sounding board for his deductions, comfort and tea and convenience and... property.  
  
Moriarty was right. He’s Sherlock’s pet.  
  
When he rounds a corner and finds Sherlock leaning against a wall, he isn't even slightly surprised. The mind-reading sociopath hadn’t followed him, but had deduced where he would run to instead, of course he had. He'd known where John's subconscious would lead him. He knew that he'd purposefully avoid the obvious route and had worked out the route he'd take instead.  
  
 _Damn_ him.  
  
"What?" John blurts out angrily. "What do you want? Why are you here? What do you want from me?"  
  
"I want you to come home."  
  
"What on earth for?"  
  
Sherlock frowns, as though uncertain of what to say. John shakes his head and turns, walking back the way he came. A detached part of John registers the pain in his thigh and notes that his limp is back. Great. Just great.  
  
"Don't. Please." Sherlock says. "Please don't run."  
  
There's something in his voice which makes John stop.  
  
"Please," Sherlock repeats, softer.  
  
John turns, his jaw clenched, his body held stiffly. The desolate look on Sherlock's face makes his heart feel tight, but he ignores it, because if he takes notice of that he'll crumble.  
  
"Please come home," Sherlock says, taking a tentative step toward him.  
  
"Why?" John says, keeping his voice flat.  
  
"Because... I don't work without you. I need you."  
  
John scoffs at Sherlock's choice of words, remembering the last time he heard them, in a very different situation.  
  
"Things can go back the way they were, anything you want," Sherlock says, starting to sound bafflingly close to begging.  
  
"Do you really believe that? Honestly?"  
  
"I don’t _want_ things to go back to the way they were, obviously, but I’ll promise you anything at this point. Anything. I need you with me. Life is... is better with you. It's tolerable, even enjoyable at times. Even between cases, when I think the boredom may kill me, life is better," Sherlock says. He pauses, then adds, "It was better when we were... friends."  
  
John shakes his head slightly, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans, looking at Sherlock's shoes. "We’re not friends now?"  
  
"I... just meant... I assumed... I mean, you walked out."  
  
"That doesn’t mean I hate you all of a sudden."  
  
Sherlock’s eyes widen and he looks abruptly away as John says the word ‘hate’.  
  
"If you hated me, I couldn’t bear it," Sherlock murmurs, avoiding John’s eyes. "I couldn’t function. I wouldn’t survive it."  
  
John looks at Sherlock, eyes narrowed. "That’s not fair. You can’t say that."  
  
"It’s the truth," Sherlock says, simply.  
  
"Sherlock-"  
  
"-I need you with me. You keep me... You help me be... _human_. I'm not good at that, but you are, and you make me a better person," Sherlock says, looking uncomfortable with this admission of weakness.  
  
"You could be a good person if you wanted to. I really just think that you can't be bothered. Being an arsehole is more efficient, it's quicker, it gets results in cases, so that's what you do," John says, surprising even himself with the anger in his voice. "You don't care whose feelings you hurt and that's fine but this is _me_ , Sherlock. You don't treat me like that. Not ever. Not... like you have been. It's not right and I won't put up with it. I won't. You might not agree, but things between us have changed. You used to respect me, well, more than you respect most other people at any rate, and _fuck me_ , but I _miss_ that."  
  
Sherlock stares at John's face as he talks, watching the way a vein throbs at the side of his forehead.  
  
"I'm not just around to help you _get off_ when you're bored. I'm not a plaything. I'm your friend. You seem to have forgotten that," John says, frowning at Sherlock's silence.  
  
"Are you telling me you didn't enjoy yourself?" Sherlock murmurs, "Because I know that's a lie."  
  
"It's not as simple as that," John says, running a hand through his hair, trying not to think about just how much he enjoyed himself.. "I wish it was, but I have _feelings_ , Sherlock. For you. Real feelings."  
  
Sherlock is stunned. This contingency clearly hadn't occurred to him. It shows on his face and John shakes his head, almost sadly.  
  
"You really didn't know?" John says, slightly calmer now.  
  
"I really didn't. I didn't even... it wasn't my intention," Sherlock says, almost apologising, but characteristically not quite saying the words.  
  
"I get that. I do. But you've got to see things from my perspective, just for a moment," John says, taking a step closer. "The most amazing man I've ever known started showing an interest in me. A real interest. And I tried not to take it to heart, but you're so... overwhelming. All that focus, pointed right at me. It cut through me like a laser. You broke down all my defences, one by one, got closer to me than anyone has in as long as I can remember, and then you got a case and that was it, you were gone. One second you were overwhelming me completely and the next..."  
  
"I disappeared."  
  
"Exactly. You just... left. Left me."  
  
"I didn't leave you. I was just... away. Busy."  
  
"I get it. You got caught up. But do you have any idea how scared I was? Would it have killed you to text me?"  
  
"My mobile died. I didn't have a chance to charge it," Sherlock says lamely.  
  
"You couldn't have called from a payphone?"  
  
"I just... I needed to think."  
  
"Why didn't you take me with you?"  
  
"Because... because you'd slow me down," Sherlock says, then sees the look on John's face and adds quickly, "Not like that. Not in the way you think. I mean, I couldn't have you around, distracting me."  
  
"That's exactly the way I thought you meant, actually," John says, frowning deeply. "I thought we were a team. I thought... I don't know what I thought anymore."  
  
"We are, John, I promise you. I just need some time to adjust. This isn't... easy."  
  
"It's not easy for me either, Sherlock. God."  
  
"I know. I won't disappear again, I promise."  
  
"Right. Okay. But even before your big disappearing act, before we... slept together... You took a case and it was like you went off me completely. You went cold."  
  
"I wasn't cold, I just needed to focus."  
  
"I get that. I get your focus. I get that there wasn't any room for me, right at that moment. But that doesn't mean I like it, or that I can live like that."  
  
Sherlock says nothing, just frowns.  
  
"I don't have that switch in my head," John says. "I can't just turn off... the way I feel about you."  
  
Sherlock frowns for a few moments, and then he gets _That Look_ on his face – the one which means he's just worked out a particularly tricky puzzle. The look he gets when he's been particularly clever.  
  
"I didn't turn it off, John," Sherlock breathes fervently, moving closer. "I didn't turn off anything. I pushed it to the back of my mind, so I could focus on something other than you. Do you honestly think you've been any less overwhelming than I?"  
  
It's John's turn to be stunned. Sherlock's face is serious as he closes the gap between them, running two cold hands up the front of John's cable-knit jumper. John looks down at Sherlock's hands.  
  
"You were all I could think about. Even now, it's a struggle not to get lost in you."  
  
When he finally raises his head to look up at Sherlock, John's expression is confused.  
  
"But I'm... I'm just... _me_ ," says John.  
  
Sherlock smiles, a small, fond smile. "Modest, yes. Understated, certainly. A little sycophantic at times..."  
  
"Hey!" John interjects.  
  
Sherlock smiles a little, not even pausing in his list, "An excellent marksman, undeniably. Cool under pressure. A revelation in bed. Oh, _and how_. Utterly intoxicating, _god_ yes."  
  
John is speechless.  
  
Sherlock looks into John's eyes, his usually cold gaze heating John like microwaves.  
  
"You really don’t see it, do you? How ordinary and yet remarkable you are. How utterly you... _have_ me," Sherlock murmurs in the voice John associates with nakedness and closeness and heat.  
  
"The day we met, that day at Bart’s, looked into your eyes, I looked into _you_ , and I wasn't bored. I saw all that you were on that day, and yet I still wanted to know more. That never happens to me. I deduce people's motives, their desires, everything about them, and then I deem them tedious and move on to the next thing.  
  
"But not you. With you, I wanted to solve every tiny puzzle, dig out every single little detail. I wanted every part of you. I wanted to get inside you and solve you from the inside out. Shake you apart and put you back together again, to know how you work.  
  
"I told myself that I'd never act on it, that it was enough to just keep you close to me, and it was for a while. But it grew inside me, this desire, and finally I couldn’t hide it anymore. I needed you, I wanted you and I had to have you. I craved you. I still do."  
  
"You... you want me too?" John sees the ‘ _oh, you’re an idiot_ ’ expression on Sherlock’s face and adds quickly, "I mean, as more than just a... friend with benefits?"  
  
"Much more than that," Sherlock murmurs. "You’re my partner. In every possible sense."  
  
 _'Is this the part where I kiss him?'_ thinks John. _'Is this the happily-ever-after part?'_  
  
"You’re obviously not my equal in an intellectual capacity, but if I wanted someone like that, well -"  
  
"- Shut up now," John says, shaking his head and grinning despite himself. "You never know when to just... stop."  
  
"That’s what I have you for," Sherlock murmurs with a small smile. "Frankly, I know how terrifying I will most likely be in a courtship situation, so I wanted to spare you that. But if you won't be talked out of it, I suppose I have no choice," Sherlock murmurs, then clears his throat. "John, come home with me. Be mine."  
  
John looks up at Sherlock seriously for a few long moments, then surprises him by bursting out into a chuckle.  
  
"'Be mine?' Seriously?"  
  
Sherlock frowns and wets his bottom lip quickly in surprise.  
  
"'Be mine' doesn't work?"  
  
"You sound like a greeting card."  
  
"But my meaning is clear, yes?"  
  
"Yes," John murmurs. "Crystal."  
  
"I'm a relationship nightmare, you realise. Eyeballs in the microwave, dead squirrels in the bath..."  
  
"Bullet holes in the wall... Are you trying to talk me out of this?"  
  
Sherlock smiles a little. "For your own good."  
  
"My own good isn't my primary concern anymore."  
  
"Clearly. You'll have to show me how these 'relationship' things work, because I really haven't a clue, I'm afraid."  
  
John smiles. "Yeah, you're a bit rubbish, aren't you?"  
  
"Completely and utterly rubbish," Sherlock agrees.  
  
Sherlock slides an arm around John's waist and pulls him close, dipping his head to take the shorter man's lips in a brief, forceful kiss. When their lips part, John looks up at Sherlock, his eyes slightly dazed.  
  
"Take me home, you brilliant, mad bastard," John murmurs, a little breathlessly.  
  
Sherlock smiles an unguarded, slightly goofy smile and kisses John's cheek quickly before walking to the curb, arm already raised to hail a cab, which, of course, appears from nowhere and stops for him. He's got one leg in the open door of the cab when he pauses to look back at John.  
  
There's a momentary hint of uncertainty in the expression on Sherlock's face until John walks over to the cab. It makes something flutter inside John, and he reaches out to take Sherlock's hand in reassurance.  
  
They get into a cab as true partners for the first time, thighs touching on the back seat, and drive off into the London night.  
  


  
_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed. :)
> 
> Originally posted on livejournal, July 2011


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